


All This and More

by problematiquefave



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alpha Nick Clark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Troy Otto, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: Nick hates Troy at first — from the violence to the scent that is all sorts of wrong — yet somehow, they end up here. Maybe they'll find a happy ending in a world without them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter covers the events of episodes 1 and 2 of season 3 meaning there are mentions of Nick/Luciana. This is a Nick/Troy story though and Luciana will leave the ranch like she does in canon.

It’s not the first thing Nick notices about Troy.

No, the first thing he notices is that Troy is a psychopathic son of a bitch with no regard for human life and zero comprehension of the word ‘mercy.’ He notices the arrogance in thinking that what he’s doing – the murder, the torture, the violence – is science and he notices the way the men (soldiers? he doesn’t think so, if they’re wearing fatigues) eye him with a mixture of fear and respect. He notices that Troy is top-dog, despite the pretty face, big blue eyes, and cherubic cheekbones.

He doesn’t notice it until they’ve escaped, when the three of them in the truck-bed have migrated inside the cabin and Troy is flipping through a CD album in the shotgun seat. Nick’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, the scent overwhelming his senses – the wrongness of it, specifically.

Troy Otto doesn’t smell like a beta or an alpha or an omega; he’s smells like gunpowder and leather, blood and rot.

Nick’s nose scrunches up and his eyes narrow because _what the fuck_. Who smells like that? So, _so_ wrong. It’s unique – Nick will give him that – but it makes his eyes water and his stomach churn. What sort of fucked up is Troy that he smells like that? That he smells like death and that Nick can’t even begin to guess what he is?

Throwing a glance over at his mom, he searches for some sort of reaction but she’s had that tightness in her jaw and steely-set to her eyes since they left the depot. He guesses he doesn’t blame her; she’s worried about Travis and Alicia, thousands of feet above their head, completely out of contact. Nick is too, for the record, but he also can’t forget they’re trapped in a car with a killer, headed somewhere they know nothing about.

Speaking of that killer…

He has a _horrible_ taste in music.

 

 

When they reach the ranch, Nick isn’t really sure what to make of things. They’re on the other side of a barb-wired fence, guards with guns watching their every twitch. His mom has a gun too but Nick has zero faith that it’ll save them if things go south. He paces in the field, the toes of his boots kicking up dirt. His mom stays closer to the fence and, when Troy’s father comes out – _Jeremiah Otto_ – she’s the one that talks to him.

Nick stands back, watching; his eyes flick between the pair and the house in the distance, searching for Troy. He may have been amiable in the car ride but it doesn’t erase the memories of what he did. Troy is a killer. How many hundreds or thousands did he catch in the spider’s web he weaved at the depot? How many innocents like Luciana’s people?

They’ll get the supplies Jake promised; then they’ll go. It’s what he tells himself as the gates swing open, hinges squealing in protest. It’s what he tells himself as they step past the fence, inside Broke Jaw Ranch.

And that would be more reassuring if:

  1. Alicia, Luciana, and Travis weren’t missing _and_
  2. His mother agreed with him _and_
  3. Troy didn’t want him dead.



At least the feelings are mutual. Every time he sees Troy, any time his so-wrong scent drifts past his nose, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Their eyes meet and Nick can’t help it as his hands clench. In another time, in another life, Nick might think those blue eyes were pretty. In this one, they send shivers up his spine and turn his blood to ice.

God… That _scent_. It drives Nick up the wall whenever he comes into contact with it, whether it’s lingering in a place Troy has recently been or wafting over to him as the pass each other at the ranch. Jeremiah smells normal – an alpha, perhaps a bit like mothballs. Jake smelled normal or, at least, nothing that stood out to him in their brief contact. No one else at the ranch smells like that. It’s _just_ Troy.

“He smells _wrong_ ,” he laments to his mother after dinner. He’s sitting on the bed, his pillow in his lap as Madison looks at the window. “Like… Like everything wrong with the world.”

She glances at him, one dark eyebrow creeping up her forehead. He purses his lips and gives her a look of defiance. _Argue with that_ , it states. His mother sighs and turns her attention back to the window. He expects her to ignore him and continue her vigil but she does respond after a minute.

“You’ve always been more… sensitive about that,” she says, calm and calculated. In a way, she’s right – scents bother him more than anyone else, but it wasn’t always that way. Not before he fucked up his head and his body with heroin and everything else he could get his greedy fingers on. Yet still…

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed it either? What even is he?” Nick shakes his head, huffing in frustration.

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t. You’re free to be who you want to be no matter what you are – an omega can be president or an alpha can be a stripper. He grew up in a liberal, atheistic household in Los Angeles. He agrees with it and thinks those old-fashioned stereotypes are bullshit. Still, there’s something about not knowing – a feeling he’s never experienced before – that makes him want to know all the more.

 “No, it doesn’t,” he says, repeating that to himself because what the hell does anything about Troy Otto matter to him?

The answer: it doesn’t.

It especially won’t once they’re out of here; his mom may be thinking about settling for this place but Travis will talk her out of it once he’s back. Then the five of them – Luciana included – will leave and never look back. He’ll never have to think about Troy Otto again.

 

 

That plan, of course, hinges on the fact that Travis returns and Luciana isn’t half dead. Neither of which happen.

The guards at the gate spot Jake, Alicia, and Luciana first, calling the attention of the rest of ranch. Nick immediately drops what he’s doing to run over there, by-passing Troy without a single glance.

His mother gets there first, enveloping Alicia in a tight hug before stepping past her, looking for Travis. Nick’s stomach drops. There is no sign of anyone else, no sign of Travis, and Alicia looks at their mother with sad eyes and tight lips. He doesn’t need to hear Alicia’s half-audible words to know that Travis didn’t make it but it claws at his chest nonetheless. Travis didn’t deserve to die. His mother didn’t deserve that.

He spots Luciana on the ground, all but falling to his knees beside her. There’s a ginger-haired beta taking her pulse but he withdraws, allowing for Nick to grab her face and he neck. He can feel the weak thump-thump of her pulse, there but barely. “Luci, hey – Luci, it’s me,” he murmurs, but she doesn’t stir. He can hear Jake and Jeremiah talking in the background, about the helicopter being shot down by persons unknown and Charlene dying in the pass. The words only half-register with him, too focused on Luciana. He likely wouldn’t have even noticed Troy if it weren’t for that ever-present _stench_ and the shadow that falls over them.

“Not gonna make it is what he means,” Troy answers, in that half-slurred way he talks, butting into a conversation he shouldn’t have been party to. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at the sun on the horizon. A selfish, petty part of Nick would _really_ like it if he looked long enough to go blind.

It’s weak when he says it, equal parts confused, desperate, and disheartened – disheartened because he doesn’t trust Troy as far as he can throw him. But still… “Help her.”

“Take her to the infirmary and she might turn,” he responds, looking away from the horizon and down at them. There isn’t a shred of pity in his eyes but it wasn’t like Nick was expecting find any. _Murderer_ , he remembers, because he can never forget that. **Murderer**. “It’s against policy,” the bastard adds after a moment.

“It’s your fault. _You_ shot her,” Nick argues, raising his voice and drawing the attention of the gathered residents. It’s pointless to argue empathy with someone who has none but Nick doesn’t have a choice. He can’t let them leave Luciana to die. He _can’t_.

Troy shrugs; “I was defending my people,” is his excuse. Defending… As if. “I’ll do it again. I know what to do.”

And that, ladies, gents, and pals, is when it all goes to hell.

Because Troy pulls out a gun.

Nick is on his feet in an instant, slamming his hands into Troy’s chest, repeating the word ‘no’ over and over so fast it’s a miracle his tongue doesn’t trip on it. Panic bubbles up in Nick’s chest as Troy is unperturbed, a cold, determined glint in his eye. It’s in moments like these that Nick wishes he was more threatening because even if he’s an alpha, he’s nothing special – average height for his designation and a slim build. Troy has at least two inches on him and muscles you only get from daily labor. He’s not threatening though and Troy is unbothered, his hand on Nick’s side as he tells him calmly to step aside.

Nick looks to Jake and Jeremiah; they’ve both got hard-set expressions and feet firmly planted in the dirt, no offer of help on their lips. The residents are the same, though some can’t bare to look. Cowards and murderers – that’s who the people of Broke Jaw Ranch are. If he wants to save Luciana, he has to do it himself.

Swallowing the bitter protests on his tongue, he nods his head, looking Troy in the eye before stepping back. And Troy… Troy fucking _grins_. It takes everything in his power not to sock the smug expression right off his face, to not hit him over and over again in that bandaged eye until he does what his mother couldn’t and blind the bastard. No, he waits, ignoring the horror on Alicia and Madison’s faces, standing still until Troy cocks the gun. Then, and only then, he leans over and speaks.

“I’ll do it.” He doesn’t think about what goes on in his mother or Alicia’s heads in that moment – he can’t. He has to remain determined as Troy’s gaze slowly slides over to him. “I’ll do it,” he repeats, looking Troy dead in the eye. “I’m allowed this.”

There’s a moment where he thinks his plan has failed – when Troy looks back down at Luciana, his finger still on the trigger. But then, after looking around, Troy nods; “all right, all right,” he says, pressing the gun into Nick’s hand and stepping away, that twisted grin on his lips.

Nick’s eyes travel to Luciana. There’s a lump in the back of his throat as he stares at her face – too still, too pale. She sucks in a shallow breath but doesn’t stir. Even if they get her to the infirmary, there’s no guarantee that she’ll live. At least, though, she’ll have a chance.

So he turns, he meets Jeremiah’s eyes, and then he points the gun at Troy.

And everything goes to hell for a second time.

There’s at least five guns trained on him, one of them being Jake’s, but Nick doesn’t care. Either he kills Troy, he dies with Luciana, or he gets her the help she deserves. Some options are more preferable but he’ll be satisfied with any of them.

“Let her in,” he orders, glaring at Troy as the other man shifts from foot to foot. Nervous. Nick wonders if that’s the first time Troy has felt that way. After a moment – which was likely only a second – Troy raises his hand over his eye, either to block the glare of the sun or protect the only eye he can see out of right now. Nick’s not too particular about the reasons. His mother calls his name but he ignores her, looking to Jeremiah. “I said, let her in.”

Jake is the one that answers; “Nick, this isn’t how we do things here.” His mother calls his name again but, as before, he ignores her.

“Not this time,” he tells Jake, looking back at Troy. It’s kind of fun, watching that bastard squirm. Maybe it’s not the last sight he dreamed of but he’d be satisfied.

Troy opens his mouth, tells Nick to “do what his mommy says,” and all Nick does in response is raise his gun, squeezing the trigger a hair tighter. The ‘shut up’ is well implied, especially as he starts stepping towards Troy. That’s when Jeremiah _finally_ responds, jumping in front of his son, telling Nick to calm down.

“Come on,” the old man says, motioning towards himself as Nick lowers the gun a fraction to point at Jeremiah. “Let me have the pistol, son.” There’s something kindly about his tone, something that cools the rage that Troy had stirred up in.

“You can’t let her die,” he says, his voice breaking, no longer supported by his hatred.

 _At least_ he finally gets what he wants. “If she’s got a pulse, we’ll let her in,” Jeremiah answers. “But first, you gotta give me the gun.”

Madison urges him to give Jeremiah the gun. There’s a brief moment where he debates, when he runs through all the things that could go wrong – maybe the others will open fire, maybe Troy will tackle him like a wild dog, maybe Jeremiah will order the gates to be closed on him and Luciana. He overcomes his hesitation though, swallowing his nerves, and hands the gun to Jeremiah.

Though Jeremiah hands Troy the gun again – for a brief, terrifying second, Nick thinks Troy will shoot him, but nothing comes to pass – and orders that they take Luciana to the infirmary. He doesn’t care that Jeremiah orders them to secure her. He can accept precautions, not cruelty.

And, as Jeremiah says, the show is over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers 3x03; has mentions of Nick x Luciana and a warning for infidelity. I'm still baffled at how long this chapter ended up being and make no guarantees that future chapters will be similar.

Nick can’t say he even remembers what Charlene Daley’s face looks like. He knows she wasn’t among Troy’s people at the depot – that she came with Jake and left with him. He wants to say she had blonde hair but he’s not certain. The only reason he knows her last name is because _everyone_ is talking about her. It makes sense, he supposes, and he’s sorry for their loss, but Travis is gone too and his mother is barely holding herself together.

Last night, when it was just the three Clarks in the barracks, she’d said that they’d make this place their home, even if that meant taking it by force. Alicia had objected, reiterating the things that Nick had said earlier, but Madison brushed her off the same way she brushed him off. There was at least a fire in her vow that let him think, for a moment, everything might be okay.

In the morning, though, she looked fragile and tired, nothing like the fierce alpha he’d known his whole life. He offered to bring her breakfast but she shook her head. “If we want these people to accept us, we have to show them that we belong here,” she said, determined despite herself. So he followed her, trailing after his mother and his sister, scanning the ranch and meeting the eyes of wary strangers. It seemed that his stunt at the gate hadn’t won him any favors.

He isn’t surprised by anything that happens up to this point; his mother is stubborn, has been since long before he was born – she was a spirit that could’ve only been born in the backwaters of Alabama, raised beneath the sweltering southern sun. Her willpower doesn’t surprise him; her resolve to go to Charlene’s memorial _does_.

“Are you mad?” he asks, once they’re away from the dining area – the one that’s being cleaned and prepped for the memorial. “They don’t want us there!”

“We were invited,” she responds flatly. Alicia is standing off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, decidedly not saying anything. He doesn’t blame her; sometimes it’s easier when only one of them argues against their mother, otherwise she starts slinging accusations of them teaming up against her.

“Not because they wanted us there!” he throws back. “We don’t have a place there.”

“We do. We have a place there because we have a place here on this ranch,” she replies. Nick opens his mouth to argue but she shakes her head. “We’re going. _You’re_ going.” Her gaze travels past him, in the direction of the infirmary. “Check on Luciana. I’ll get you when the memorial starts.”

Madison turns on her heel then, stalking off in the direction of the barracks. He could chase after her, debates it even, but instead Nick turns to look at Alicia. His sister shrugs and takes off after their mother, leaving him standing in the middle of a dirt path, the stench of rot slowly growing closer. Glancing over his shoulder, Nick spots Troy lurking in the distance – their eyes meet for a second before Nick sighs with frustration and stomps off to the infirmary.

 

 

Madison gets him a short while later, as she said she would. Though she doesn’t say it, her clenched jaw conveys that there’s still no room for argument. Nick doesn’t want to go but he doesn’t want to stay here either. Floyd, the nurse in charge of the infirmary, had been shooting him wary glances the entire time he sat at Luciana’s side. With Luciana still unconscious – though doing much better – and his presence clearly unwanted, an opportunity to leave is worth taking.

When they get to the main tent, it seems most of Broke Jaw Ranch has appeared. The majority are wrapped up in grief or conversation but a few notice them, looking at them with suspicion. Nick, in particular, seems to receive the most guarded glances. Irrationally, he wonders if all of these people care _that_ much about Troy – if they do, they can’t know about what he’s done.

They find three open seats a few rows back; Nick instantly plops into his, hunching his shoulders and looking down at his lap. Alicia rests on the edge of hers, watching their mother as she tries to interject herself into a few conversations. Nick glances up now and again, noticing each time that more and more people have taken their spots. At one point, he notices that Troy has taken a seat at the front. Nick also notices the distinct lack of sorrow in his blue eyes – and that the bandage has come off. It seems that Madison stuck the spoon a little too low. Shame.

Eventually, Jeremiah clears his throats and the last of those standing creep into their seats. Madison is among them and she sits on the edge of her chair as Mrs. Daley comes up to the podium.

Mrs. Daley starts telling them about a story from Charlene’s childhood, about a time when her daughter had jumped off the roof with a lawn umbrella, trying to fly. “She thought the thing would hold her,” she says with a bitter, almost-laugh. Her voice is equal parts sadness and anger. It’s justified, Nick thinks. He may not have known her but _no one_ deserves that fate. Well, maybe Troy – he looks to the younger Otto son for a moment, their eyes meeting. Nick breaks the contact to look back at Mrs. Daley, right as the older woman starts to speak again. “She broke her arm in two places, but she never cried.”

Has Troy ever cried?

“Charlene embodied the spirit of this place,” Mrs. Daley states, her voice cracking as the words leave her lips. At the same time, it rises in volume, imbued with passion. “An always-ready, never-quit, get-it-right-this-time spirit. And she would have… If she weren’t risking her life for the unprepared.”

A wave of emotion washes over Nick in that moment. Mrs. Daley looks directly at the three of them – at his mother, at Alicia, at himself. They were the unprepared that her daughter risked her life for. Alicia was in the helicopter when it went down. She was there when Charlene volunteered for first watch, when the warning shot rung through the night. Alicia had shared what happened in the passes when they were alone in the barracks.

But… Nick can’t help but think her anger is misplaced. She should be angry with this world where the dead walk and want to eat your face. If she needs _someone_ to blame, then Troy is the better candidate. If Troy weren’t wreaking havoc at the depot, then Jake and Charlene wouldn’t have had to come down to put a stop to it. If Troy wasn’t massacring people and calling it science, if he had shown _mercy_ , then Nick never would’ve had to try and escape with Luciana, resulting in the walkers getting into the depot and the hasty escape. Charlene’s death wasn’t their fault; even if their family hadn’t come along, it might have very well ended the same way – someone else in his place, the same, mysterious person shooting down the helicopter.

They don’t deserve these stares or the inaudible murmurs. They don’t deserve to feel like murderers when they _didn’t do anything_.

Jake, at least, has the common sense to see that. He ushers Mrs. Daley from the podium; who knows what he would’ve said next because that’s when Madison decided to rise from her seat and Nick decides he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. _Not now_.

But she speaks. “Hello,” she starts awkwardly. “I just wanted to introduce my family. I’m Madison Clark and these are my children—” _please don’t_ “—Nick and Alicia. We wanted to offer our condolences for Charlene and for the others you lost. We’ve lost loved ones too.”

Nick is mortified as his mother speaks, the barest hint of a southern cadence in her voice. _They don’t care_ , he wants to say. _They think we’re interlopers and freeloaders_. Hell, they’re probably thinking that it’s good there aren’t more Clarks to barge in and act like they belong. If only his mother would sit down, shut up, and not make things worse. Of course, she doesn’t.

“Travis,” she continues. Her voice is halting and Nick notices how Troy watches with more interest than he’s had the entire memorial. “Travis, he was our compass, and he—We just wanted to say thank you for sheltering us and thank you for your generosity. We will repay it.”

At least it doesn’t start a riot.

But that doesn’t mean things go _well_. As Jake begins to make a speech about grieving, a man interrupts. Frustration rolls off him in waves as he starts on about the helicopter. Nick notices that he specifies Patty’s name when he mentions grief but otherwise doesn’t really care. The helicopter? Not his problem. It goes over his head up until the point the point that Troy speaks.

“Payback, Vernon,” is what he says. _Of course_. Troy only cares to chip in when violence is on the line. “That’s what my father means. Whatever this threat, large or small, we will make this right.” Nick isn’t surprised – no, he’s just disgusted.

When Jakes says “we’ll mete our justice when we know what it is we’re dealing with,” is the moment Nick decides he likes the older Otto brother, that he can forgive him for raising his gun to Nick at the gate incident. “We’re more than a mob,” Jake states, and Nick can see the incredulity in Troy’s eyes. He has to wonder how Jeremiah raised a son this good and another one so… _not_.

“Like my father says,” Jake continues. “If you plan for the future—” the crowd joins in here, listless to Nick’s ears “— _plan for a better one_.” As they rise from their seats, shuffling out of the tent, Nick has to wonder…

Does a better future involve Troy? _Can it?_

 

 

Floyd catches Jeremiah and tells him that Luciana is awake before he’s even told Nick. Troy overhears, loitering beside one of the tent-poles – technically eavesdropping but what does it matter? Jeremiah gives the nurse a non-committal response and Floyd goes off to tell the Clarks. To tell Nick. For a moment, Troy entertains the thought of going to the infirmary while it’s unguarded and finishing what he started at the gate. That fantasy lasts for a split second before it fades back into the dark corners of his mind. Jake would be _pissed_ if he did something like that. His father probably wouldn’t be too happy either.

Turning away from the scene, he kicks up rocks as he treads the path. It feels a little strange not to be wearing his usual fatigues though his ‘civilian’ clothes are probably as close to those as he can get – cargo jeans and an army green, flannel shirt.

He sees various faces that he recognizes as he walks. He knows these people, grew up around them or welcomed them when they made their way here; Troy probably knows them better than his father. Not because he’s friends with most of them – they regard him with equal parts fear and respect, how he prefers it – but because he watches, observes, and remembers. It’s just like the fact he knows every crevice and cranny of this land, better than Jake, his father, or those ridiculous Indians who always tried to claim it was theirs.

He nods at Coop and Mikey when he sees them gearing up for patrol. They nod back, Mikey shooting him a absurd grin, but none of them stop to chat. They have things to do and Troy’s been ordered to stay at the ranch until Floyd gives him and his eye the okay. His vision in his right eye is still blurry and, more often than not, he has to bite back a hiss of pain when it starts stinging. Floyd had told him to put the bandage back on if got to be too much but Troy is used to pain. He’s had worse.

He’s done worse.

And he’s still a bit miffed that he can’t do more. That he can’t even be out there slaughtering the lingering undead. At least it would liven up his day and save him from the overwhelming boredom of being confined here. As he can’t even do that, he’s left to find some way to entertain himself.

Troy knows that most are setting up for lunch; if he were bored and desperate enough, he could probably go help Gretchen in the kitchen but… No. He’s not ready to sink that low. There’s plenty of places on the ranch where he can go. There’s the look-out on the west hill, or the bunker a mile east of the big house, or…

Troy pauses mid-step; no one is lingering in this area of the grounds, leaving him all alone and staring up at the barracks. The people that built this house had left the ranch long before the infection spread. Initially, they’d used it for quarantine before realizing it was easier just to put a bullet between the eyes of those that were sick. It had been thoroughly clean and scrubbed before the Clarks had even left Los Angeles. In that past, before and after the end, he’d sometimes sneak over here when sleep eluded him elsewhere. It was set far enough back from the tents and trailers to be a quiet place to nap. It’s a nice place all around, but too big for just Madison and Alicia and too nice for Nick.

His feet move towards the house before he even decides to head there, though admittedly, he doesn’t stop himself once he realizes what he’s doing. Troy is curious. What have they done with the place? What can he find? He’s snooping, really, but that ranks low on his list of crimes.

The hinges creak as he pushes open the door, his eyes scanning the room before he even steps inside. No one’s there – likely helping with lunch or sitting at Luciana’s side. He’s quick to shut the door behind him; he’d hope no one saw him enter but he doesn’t care if someone did. What are the Clarks going to do if they find out? Spit on his hospitality? Stab him in the face? Hold a gun to his head? Glare at him like he killed their pet rabbit? Oh, wait.

He looks around. He finds Madison’s bed quickest, her scent being the strongest in the room. She’s an alpha so it makes sense. In fact, all of the Clarks – Madison, Alicia, and Nick – are alphas, something he knows from intake at the depot. It’s not out of the ordinary as designations tend to be genetic. If you have two alphas for parents, odds are that all the children will be alphas; if you have an alpha and an omega, odds are the children will be one of those. So on and so forth. It’s not impossible for, say, an alpha and a beta to have an omega child but it’s the exception (the one he is _bitterly_ familiar with).

Unfortunately, there’s not much to see here. He drops onto Nick’s bed with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. Falling back over the bed, his head nearly brushing the wall, he looks up at the underside of the top bunk and decides he’s not really sure what he was expecting to find. More than this, definitely, but it’s not like they’d had anything on them when they came here. There’s nothing here to tell him anything about them, or at least not anything he doesn’t already know. He also doesn’t find anything that he can use against them; there’s no stolen painkillers in Nick’s bed that Troy could use to push him out. He’s frustrated with the fruitlessness of the endeavor.

Nick’s scent in his nose doesn’t help. His fault for deciding to lay on this bed – though, for the record, it was the bed he always chose when he slept here. Troy doesn’t have any specific way to describe Nick’s scent; that’s not something he’s even been very good at determining. He knows that it’s weaker than most other alphas though _why_ is something he can’t answer. Hormone deficiency, possibly, or drugs. He doesn’t imagine that black-tar heroin or whatever else Nick was injecting into his body helped.

It’s not the he hates Nick… Except, he kind of does. A selfish, spoiled brat with no place on this ranch. Nick was supposed to die, along with his little girlfriend and his step-father. They were supposed to be more data to add to his records. The girlfriend would’ve been common enough – he had plenty of other Mexican girls of her age and build coming up through the border – but Nick and Travis would’ve been helpful. A drug addict and a Maori… New and useful data, to put it simply. And now it taunts him, Travis lost to him and Nick staring him down day in and day out.

Troy rolls over, bringing the pillow under his cheek. Is it a little bizarre to be getting comfortable in the bed of someone he loathes? Yeah, but when was Troy ever normal? He’s pretty sure no one can answer that, not even his dad or Jake. So he settles himself into the bed, eyelids heavy with a lack of sleep from the night before, and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. Will he probably run into one of the Clarks if he stays here? Again, yeah – but that might actually make this trip worth his while.

Troy realizes he’s dozed off when the porch steps groan and the door hinges creak, Madison entering the room with nary a glance as she asks off-hand “how’s Luciana?” Well, he assumes she doesn’t look, just noticing out of the corner of her eye the body in Nick’s bed and assuming it’s her son. If she realized it was him, well… He doubts that’s the question she would ask.

“Oh, still alive,” he drawls in answer, satisfaction taking hold inside his chest. He might just get something out of Madison; Alicia would likely glare at him until he left and God only knows what would happen if it were Nick. Madison, though, will put up with him – if only because she thinks she can manipulate him.

What? He might not have graduated the fifth grade but Troy isn’t an idiot.

As Troy rolls over, propping himself up on his elbow, he sees Madison spin around her. Her hand reaches behind her back but stops short of the gun he knows she’s carrying. Not her style, is it? Or maybe it is – she’s a stranger, after all, and he can’t be sure of anything with her. At least he can understand her better though; she wants what’s best for her family, like he wants what’s best for the people of this ranch. Nick? He doesn’t know – his girlfriend, maybe. Alicia? He doesn’t _care_.

“I liked you speech,” he continues, realizing she won’t say the first word. “I liked how you said his name. _Travis_. It makes him matter. Makes him real.”

“He was real,” Madison says. _Finally._

“It wasn’t why you said it though.” Troy shifts, pushing himself up more. “It wasn’t out of grief. It was pointed. You wanted to remind us you’re a victim, too.”

Again, Troy is not an idiot. He doesn’t feel like others do and his mind doesn’t turn in the way it does for others. He understands though. He’s watched and observed and, frankly, he’s better at dissecting the emotions of others than most people that are normal. He saw through the veil of grief, straight into the machinations of Madison’s mind. Sure, she’s sad, but she’s also got a point to prove and a goal to make.

She takes a step forward as she asks him “do you feel like a victim?” And if she thinks she can pull a fast one on him, she’s got another thing coming.

“Are you analyzing me now?”

There’s the briefest pause before she shakes her head. “No,” is her answer, but Troy has a hunch that she’s lying.

He wonders what she was in the old world. Therapist? Possibly. She’s tough enough to be a lawyer or maybe some sort of social services worker. She doesn’t strike him as the manual labor type or the creative type. She seems too practical for the latter and too driven for the former. She could surprise him though. Troy will admit: she’s surprised him before, at the depot. He learned the hard way not to underestimate her.

Rather than leave that question stewing the back of his mind, he decides to ask. Her answer? Yeah, it fits. He can see her as a guidance counsellor. He’s got no particular love for guidance counsellors, his experiences in his brief school career leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but he thinks she might’ve been good at it. A kind face hiding a clever mind.

“At a high school?” he asks. Even if it fits, she seems a bit too rough for the little ones. He doesn’t think any of the soft-headed counsellors at his elementary school would’ve been able to put a spoon in someone’s eye. So when she nods, again, he’s not surprised. “Oh. I never attended. ‘Certain social aspects of academia proved challenging for Troy.’”

The words are bitter, out before he even thinks about them. It was something one of those soft-headed counsellors at his elementary school had said to his father when it was recommended that he be home-schooled. He hadn’t been meant to hear it but he had. He didn’t get to see his father’s reaction and his verbal response had been lackluster but his red face and clenched jaw when he grabbed little Troy’s hand and dragged him out of the school said enough. Jeremiah was furious but the man didn’t fight it; if he had, the school would’ve gone forward with expelling Troy which would’ve caught the eye of CPS. It’s what happens when you put another kid in the hospital with a broken collar bone, fractured orbital socket, and severe concussion.

“You must have been lonely,” says Madison, drawing Troy out of the momentary lapse into memory. He almost says he deserved it but doesn’t. She would take it the wrong way.

“No, no. No, I, uh…” Troy gets up from the bed, ignores the way Madison turns so she can watch him better as he walks across the room. “I had this place,” he continues, motioning to the window. “Everything that I do is in service to this place.”

“Does your father believe that?”

Troy nods. He knows the question is snide but he’ll treat it as genuine, mostly because it’s a good segue. “Yeah, he understands. You know, complicated problems call for complicated solutions.”

Like how Jeremiah had to bite his tongue and hold back all the things he wanted to say to Troy’s school counsellor if he didn’t want CPS snooping through his business.

Like how Madison might not want it to be so but that Nick has no business being on this ranch.

Of course, that’s not where her thoughts go. They go back to the depot, to his experiments and piles of corpses sitting outside the walls. “Killing’s not complicated. It’s simple.” She’s wrong that that’s what she assumes he’s talking about; she’s right that killing is simple. Pulling a trigger and stopping a heart _are_ simple. The science is complex, yes, but the act is base and primal. He’ll use it though.

A grin tugs at his lips – an amused one, not to be mistaken with happy or joyful. “Do you see?” he asks her. “You understand me, you understand this world. That’s why I picked you. But I didn’t—” he steps away from the window, raising his finger to point at the bed he was just resting on, “I didn’t pick Nick.” He turns to look at her and sees the hardness in her glare.

“He comes with me,” she says, like there’s no room for discussion, like she hasn’t been listening to him speak. No, she’s been listening – she’s just not been paying attention. Complicated problems and complicated solutions. “Package deal.”

Fine. If she can’t make the connections herself, he can approach this in a different way. “Then why were you separated?” he asks pointedly. Maybe a question can stimulate her mind. “Why was he with strangers and not his family? He doesn’t deserve his place here. I think you know it.”

But it doesn’t work.

“He’ll earn it,” she says, and Troy has to bite back the bile.

Nick is not _loyal_ , he wants to shout. He doesn’t care about her or about this ranch. All he cares about is Luciana – he proved that at the depot and he proved that at the gate. It’s not like Nick even wants to be here anyways, but he’ll stay because he’s selfish. The proof of that is in the track-marks on his arms. There’s a lot of things Troy wants to say about her son but he holds them back, knowing that he’s lost his chance to reason with her. Shaking his head, Troy turns to leave the barracks.

“That was made this morning,” she calls as he reaches the door. He stops, turning to look at her over his shoulder with a glare. _Arrogant_ – the word rings in his head. But he does it, grabbing the blankets and pulling them up.

What a waste of his time – he accomplishes nothing but frustration and gets told off by Jake for all his troubles.

 

 

It has been a long day. Nick can feel exhaustion in his bones as he stands on the side of the dirt road, looking at the old couple dancing on the porch of their home. There’s an old song coming out of the record player, slow and unfamiliar, but he finds himself humming along nonetheless as he watches solemnly.

He knows, rationally, he should go back to the barracks. The sky is dark, the moon a sliver in the distance. The stars are visible this far out in the country – pin-pricks of light above his head, but the Earth is still much darker than what he’s used to it. This whole world is darker now; Nick had never realized how much light there used to be. It would be perfect for sleeping but his bed smells like Troy and that sounds about as relaxing shoving a rusty screw beneath his fingernail.

Anyways, Alicia’s at ‘bible-study,’ he doesn’t feel like interacting with his mom, and Floyd kicked him out of the infirmary once it started getting dark. He’s got nothing better to do than stand there.

Or he does, until he hears the crunch of tires over gravel. Craning his head, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes spot the pick-up truck slowly approaching. Even if he couldn’t see Troy’s face through the open window, he wouldn’t be able to ignore the smell that makes his stomach churn. Nick’s eyes narrows as the truck rolls to a stop.

Has Troy come to kill him? Nick wouldn’t put it past him after what his mom told him about their little interaction. ‘Doesn’t deserve this place,’ Nick’s _ass_. If anyone doesn’t deserve this place, it’s Troy. Troy the mass murderer who’s cruelty will cause his own downfall. It nearly did at the depot.

Nick waits for Troy to go first – to speak or act, he supposes it depends on if what sort of mood the bastard is in. He doesn’t disappoint, opening his mouth after a moment.

“A bunch of us are going hunting,” he says, wearing that smirk he normally does. Nick’s pretty sure he has three expressions: smirking, frowning, and deranged. “You can join, if you’re not too busy watching old folks bone.”

Nick represses the urge to roll his eyes at Troy, turning to look back at the couple on the porch. Like he actually believes that; like Nick doesn’t realize it’s a ruse to get him out to the middle of nowhere so he can die or disappear under ‘mysterious’ circumstances. If Troy thinks he’s smart, that he’s not completely transparent, then he’s an idiot. Nick’s response doesn’t directly call him on that but the implication is there.

“Middle of the night?”

Naturally, Troy’s got an excuse. “Boars are nocturnal,” he answers. “Catch ‘em sneaking around in the dark.”

Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean jack. Nick doesn’t trust Troy and sure as hell isn’t buying that this invitation is 100% innocuous. Rather than say all that, listen to whatever bullshit Troy can spew, he answers simply: “nah, I don’t hunt.”

“This is, uh, more— it’s more maintenance than hunting,” he insists, like a dog with a bone. Doesn’t Troy understand when he’s been caught? “More cultivating than killing,” he continues, reaching beside him and producing a hand-gun. He holds it through the window, offering the grip to Nick. He motions with it, telling him to “come.”

When Nick stands their silently, unmoving, and a look of incredulity etched into his features, Troy taps the gun against the side mirror. “Earn your keep.”

In that moment, the crickets’ buzz and old jazz song seem particularly loud. Nick knows this is a trap, that Troy is luring him to somewhere dark and remote to do away with him. Troy wants him gone – he plainly laid that out to Madison earlier, displeased when she told him in no uncertain terms that Nick came with the package. At the same time… What if he’s wrong? What if this gun is Troy’s version of an olive branch? Troy’s problem with him is that Nick doesn’t have a place here – is offering Nick a chance to ‘earn his keep’ a way of offering him a chance to remedy that? Even if he doesn’t want to, putting this beef with Troy behind him would make things easier in the off-chance that they do end up settling here.

Though only a second or two passes, all those thoughts flit through his head. In the end, he’s not sure he makes the right decision, but he does it anyways. He steps forward, taking the gun from Troy, ignoring the way Troy’s smirk widens as Nick goes around to the other side of the truck and gets in.

They drive pasts the buildings, past the tents, the campers, the animals, and through the gate. The road is made of dirt, twisting and turning through the desert hills. If Troy leaves him out here, it’ll be all too easy to get lost and not find his way back. Nick does his best to mark the terrain in his mind but it’s dark and something he’s never done before. Though he’d rather not admit it, he’s at the mercy of the younger Otto son.

They find their way to the top off one of the hills, veering off the main road onto an even bumpier one to get there. When they arrive, multiple members of Troy’s militia are already waiting. They’re chatting, holding onto the leashes of large-size dogs. Dressed in fatigues with guns slung over their shoulders, he supposes this really is a boar hunt, that Troy wasn’t lying about that. Whether that means all of Troy’s talk was true, he doesn’t know. Either way, he’ll hold on tight to the gun Troy handed him – who knows what will be waiting in the night.

When they set off on foot, he ends up at the back of the pack with Troy. The men with the dogs lead, following what their companions tell them. A little ways in, the dogs start to bark and howl, catching the scent of the prey. Excitement ripples through the people; even Nick can feel it.

The orders are to split off, to corral the boar in one centralized location. Nick is left to follow one of the handlers but loses them quickly, leaving him all by himself with just a gun and a flashlight. He can still hear the others though – he’ll start to panic when it’s silent. Until then, he follows the footsteps at a leisurely pace, his flashlight often drifting from his path to the bushes. It’s nice out here; he’s sure, in a world where such a concept exists, it might even be beautiful.

He’s drawn from his musings when Troy’s scent drifts too close. Nick focuses, hearing footsteps behind him. It makes no sense that Troy is this far back from the party, not if he’s hunting the boar. If he has other prey in mind though…

A shiver runs up Nick’s spine. He tries to keep his shoulders straight, tries not to show that he’s realized he’s being hunted. Like at the gate, playing along is going to be the best tactic. Troy is confident to the point of arrogance. Luring him into a false sense of security is the safest way to get the upper-hand. So that’s what he does, turning the corner around some bushes and slipping into them once he’s out of Troy’s line of sight. Hiding, waiting… Hunting the hunter.

Troy follows shortly, his pace faster than before – clearly trying not to lose Nick. He waits until Troy is in front of him before he throws himself out of the bushes, tackling Troy to the ground. Straddling him, he holds him to the ground with a gun pressed beneath Troy’s chin.

Troy doesn’t look shocked. He’s breathing heavy but his lips curl into that infuriating smirk of his. He knows he’s been caught but he’s not angry, isn’t fighting. It confuses Nick but he doesn’t let that show on his face. He can’t give Troy any leeway, can’t let him think he has a chance of getting the upper-hand. He doesn’t; Troy is as _Nick’s_ mercy.

“The ground’s soft,” Troy says after a second, nodding his head as best he can when he’s pinned to the dirt. Nick glares at him, silent. Troy seems to interpret that as permission to continue. “You could dig a grave real easy. I mean, people would suspect you, but… Well, they really wouldn’t know for sure.”

_Is that what you planned for me?_ It’s what Nick thinks but not what he says.

“I wonder how long it’ll take you to turn,” Nick muses, shifting his weight to press harder on the hand against Troy’s chest. Troy sucks in a breath before he answers.

“Eighty-seven minutes.” Troy nods again; “eighty-seven minutes given my weight, BMI, age.” Nick stares at him, flashing back to the depot, thinking of all the people that must have died to give Troy that information. If Troy realizes that’s what he’s thinking, he doesn’t say it – just continues. “You know, if you do it, you should time it. Journal’s in my pocket.”

Disgust fills him, injected into every word that Nick responds with. “You are not a scientist.” Each word is pronounced, as if making them clear would get them through Troy’s thick skull.

It doesn’t.

“Time it.” It’s an order, even if it’s one that Nick would never listen to. Troy has no power over him, never will. He’s delusional if he thinks he does, but, well… Troy’s delusional. “ _Nick_ ,” he starts, urgency in the word, “please.”

Like it’s some sort of final request.

“What is wrong with you?”

Nick has been asking that since the depot – since Troy shared his twisted definition of mercy, since he noticed Troy’s abnormal scent in the truck, since Troy nearly shot Luciana at the gate, since Madison told him about Troy’s pit-stop at the barracks today, since Troy offered him the gun and told him to come. He’s been asking it since the first time he laid eyes on the man beneath him but it’s the first time he’s given voice to it.

“Newton stabbed his own eye—” _of fucking course_ “—to understand the nature of light. I just...” He pauses, Nick isn’t sure for what. “I need to know. I need to know why we spoil.”

In that moment, Nick stands up and cocks the gun. He’s still got two feet planted firmly on either side of Troy and the man remains against the ground, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Troy _wants_ to die. There’s not of shred in fear in him, not in his eyes or in his posture. He licks his lips, giving Nick the smallest of nods. Acceptance. _Approval_.

Nick pulls the trigger.

Dirt flies up from where he shoots the ground. Troy is quick to look up him from where he’d turned his head to the side. He sees surprise. Shock. Troy was fully expecting him to put that bullet in his head, not the ground. To be a _murderer_ , like Troy.

The man looks to the side, to the hole just inches from his head. Nick grins, shaking his head as he lowers the gun. _What an idiot_ , he thinks, stepping away from him. Nick is not a murderer. He is _nothing_ like Troy – not deranged like him, not violent like him, not pathetic like him. Troy isn’t smart, though Nick’s sure he thinks he is.

Before Nick even gives it a thought – much less a second one – he bends down and swipes the notebook out of Troy’s pocket, darting away from the man still on the ground. He opens it, flipping to a random page, and starts tearing out the paper. It startles Troy out of his morbid reverie, shocking him off the ground. Troy charges him as Nick tries to get away. Troy is faster, more motivated, and tackles him quickly. Arms wrap around his waist, dragging him to the ground. They tumble, fall until Nick is laying half on top of Troy. Troy struggles to grab the notebook and get away.

Nick laughs the entire time.

He’s still laughing when Troy looks at him, the man reaching blindly behind him to grab one of the torn-out pages. There’s something in his eyes – something indescribable. It’s not hatred, it’s not disgust, and it’s not anything else he’s seen from Troy before. It’s almost… It’s almost like fondness. That makes Nick laugh even harder and, this time, Troy joins in.

The dogs howl, the men shout, and beside him, Troy says: “I think we can be friends now.”

A gunshot rings through the night and Nick looks at the sky.

He feels… He feels like he’s _high_. Like he’s alive. Like something he hasn’t felt in what seems like ages.

 

 

Nick thinks about that moment in the pass the entire ride back to the ranch. He thinks about his decision to go, thinks about that moment when he realized he was being hunted, and thinks about when he turned the tables. Most of all, though, he thinks of Troy. He can’t get the image of Troy beneath him out of his head. The image of his vulnerability  plants itself at the forefront of his consciousness, refusing to be moved or ignored.

Troy lied there – he didn’t fight back, didn’t beg for his life. Nick didn’t even say anything before Troy was telling him how easy it would be to get away with. He pleaded with Nick to kill him and to time it. When Nick asked him what was wrong with him? There were no insults or anger, just honesty. How bizarre the entire encounter had been from beginning to end, from ‘the ground’s soft’ to ‘I think we can be friends now.’

Were they friends now?

Did he want to be friends with Troy?

That haunts him too, clings to his mind as Troy drops him off at the barracks, as he watches the truck roll out of sight, and as he takes the steps into the small building. His mother is asleep in her bunk but Alicia’s is empty. He sits on his and, even there, he can’t escape the thoughts of Troy. His smell – gunpowder, leather, blood, rot – wafts into his senses, fainter than earlier but still undeniable. Nick looks at his pillow, at his hands, and then to the door. Even though he’s ready for this fever-dream of a day to be over, he knows he can’t sleep yet. Adrenaline is still pulsing through his veins, his mind awake and alive, like a livewire. He grabs his pack of cigarettes from underneath the mattress and leaves as quickly as he came.

There’s a cigarette between his lips – unlit because he fought to grab a lighter – as his feet take him down the dirt road. He realizes, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that he’s headed in the same direction that Troy’s truck took off in but he tells himself that’s just because the other path leads to the gate. He tries to think about other things… Like where Alicia is, like how Luciana is doing, like whether he’d get chased out of the infirmary if he went to visit her. He comes to a point where he can see the infirmary and notices that the lights are all off. She’s probably asleep – it is the middle of the night. So, instead, he decides to turn on his heel and head in the direction of where he spoke to Alicia earlier as she watched the horses.

This isn’t a part of the ranch he’s explored much yet. It’s not that Nick’s been barred from this area or that he dislikes animals, it’s just that he has no place here. What’s he supposed to do with a horse or a cow or a sheep? Nick’s a city boy; he doesn’t know anything about livestock.

Like the rest of the ranch, the livestock are asleep. He doesn’t hear any snoring – do cows snore? – but he doesn’t hear any other sounds to suggest they’re awake. The smells are strong in this area, musky and earthen, a hint of blood like everywhere else in this world, but that’s it. Realizing there’s not much for him to do here, Nick is about to turn again when he hears crunching gravel. _Footsteps_. Someone else is here. Nick tilts his head to the side, eyes straining to make out a shape in the darkness. He sees nothing though.

The intrigue reignites his adrenaline. He knows he should turn back now – this isn’t his place or his problem (if, in fact, there is a problem here). Perhaps his mind is playing a trick on him, like he hasn’t had enough excitement for one day. Nick tells himself but he doesn’t listen, feet slowly moving as he stalks towards the source of the sound.

It came from behind one of the hay barns. He rounds the corner but sees nothing. No one. Was he just hearing things? Was it just a figment of his imagination? Nick sighs, looking at his shoes. Hallucinating – great.

Nick is about to leave – to go back to the barracks because if he’s hallucinating then he needs to sleep, period – when he’s grabbed by the collar of his shirt and shoved forward. He hits the side of the barn, spinning around before whoever it is can pin him there.

Whoever it is meaning _Troy_.

The man is grinning wide, blue eyes twinkling with delight. Though Troy’s hands are still fisted in his shirt, Nick can feel the fight draining out of himself. The back of his head hits the barn and he sighs with exasperation, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he looks at Troy again.

“Got you,” he says.

Nick could fight him off he wanted to. Shove him away, tackle him to the ground – Troy is taller, stronger, and seems to have an energy to him that he didn’t out in the hills so there’s a higher chance that he might lose. Still, he could fight if he wanted to, and he will if Troy gives him any sign that he should. Troy doesn’t though; he’s still wild-eyed but there’s a looseness in his shoulders that Nick hasn’t seen before.

“Congratulations,” Nick deadpans after a second, the corners of his lips curling with the barest hint of a grin. “You got me. Now what are you going to do?”

Troy’s eyes trail over him as he steps closer, further into Nick’s personal space. Nick can’t read him though – doesn’t understand what is going inside that of his. Is this a game? Was that vulnerability out in the pass a façade? Is there where Troy kills him? He doesn’t know and that uncertainty, coupled with the intensity of Troy’s gaze, is starting to unnerve him. He’s too still, like a rattlesnake poised to strike. Nick’s jaw clenches, his expression hardening as the seconds tick by.

That’s when Troy’s hands drop to his hips.

Nick instinctually tenses. _What in God’s name…?_ Nick can feel the touch, too hot and close; he looks Troy dead in the eye, sees the wild-eyed look fading into a burning intensity. He can feel Troy’s hands moving even further, past the waistline of his jeans. His breath hitches in his chest, feeling a pressure only inches from…

Then Troy laughs. He steps away, grinning ear to ear. In his hand is Nick’s pack of cigarettes.

“These’ll kill you, y’know?” he says with a chuckle, as if amused by his own words. Nick’s breath is still caught in his chest as Troy tilts his head to the side. “Don’t want that, do you? Don’t want to abandon you’re family like that, do you? Don’t want to abandon _me_ like that, do you?”

That drags Nick out of his stupor; scoffing, the younger man rolls his eyes. “And why wouldn’t I want to abandon someone like you?”

“Because we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Nick doesn’t even dignify that with an answer, choosing instead to look away and resist the urge to sigh. Troy is messing with him. Good God… What a day this _has_ been.

“Cat got your tongue, Clark?” He’s still grinning, looking stupidly smug as he steps forward again. His hands move to Nick’s hips and though his touch is still uncomfortably warm and close, Nick realizes what he’s doing this time – slipping the cigarettes back into his pocket. “Look at this,” he starts, “I didn’t even destroy them. Ever heard of a thing called courtesy?”

Nick glares at him, though Troy clearly doesn’t take him seriously. Troy looks like the cat that caught the canary – the predator that caught the prey – and Nick… Kind of hates that. Kind of wants to flip the tables on him again. So he does. He grabs Troy by the forearms and shoves him, causing Troy to stumble which he uses to his advantage, flipping them so it’s Troy with his back to the barn and Nick all but pressed against him.

And then, to take it further, to flip those tables head-first, Nick kisses him.

Troy freezes beneath him, as still as stone, but Nick doesn’t pull away. He moves his lips against Troy’s, urging him, fingers gripping at the collar of Troy’s flannel shirt. He doesn’t think about Luciana in that moment; all he thinks about is that this feels _right_. And maybe it is – though it probably isn’t – because, after a minute, Troy returns the kiss. He’s hesitant at first, slow and unsure, but grows more confident by the second.

It feels like forever before they part. When they do, they’re gasping for breath, brown eyes meeting blue ones. It’s wrong – everything about this is wrong, everything about _Troy_ is wrong – but Nick is no longer sure he cares. So, instead, he reaches up for another kisses; he drowns himself in Troy’s scent, in the smell of gunpowder, leather, and blood, and lets the thoughts of what he’s doing slide into the background.

Their tongues meet and even though Nick is shorter and smaller, less weight and less muscles, he dominates it. One of his hands slides in Troy’s hair, gently holding onto those brown curls. His other hand slides down the length of Troy’s torso, feeling hard flesh beneath loose-fitting flannel. His fingers stop at the hem of his untucked shirt, pausing there for a moment before slipping beneath the fabric. Troy’s skin is scalding but that doesn’t stop Nick’s hands from wandering over his bare flesh.

Troy groans softly against Nick’s lips as when the younger man’s fingers brush against his nipples. _Sensitive_ , Nick notes, tweaking them again.

God… They’re really doing this.

Troy’s hands press against his shoulders as Nick trails kisses along his jaw and down the column of his neck. It’s not a hard press – Troy isn’t trying to shove him away. If he were, Nick would be off in a heart-beat. What’s going on is tenuous enough as it is, and the only reason he isn’t running back to the barracks already is the headiness left in the wake of the adrenaline high he’s been riding all night.

This is a mistake. This is something he’s going to regret in the morning. This is something he should put a stop to _right now_. And yet… He’s pulled down the collar of Troy’s shirt and is currently sucking a dark bruise into the other’s skin, dragging blunt fingernails down Troy’s muscular abdomen.

And Troy? Troy isn’t complaining. In fact, his hips buck against Nick’s, eliciting a low groan from the younger of the two.

Even if this wasn’t Troy – a murderer, a monster, and a man who was going to kill him not twelve hours ago – and even if Luciana wasn’t sleeping in the infirmary barely a stone’s throw away , this would be a mistake. It might be dark but they’re still outside in a compound full of bigots. The trees to their back and the barn that Troy is pinned to offer some privacy but it’s superficial at best. One thing none of this offers? Lube. But that’s not really something either of them are taking into consideration with blood pounding in their ears and pooling in their loins.

Nick untangles his hand from Troy’s hair, bringing it down to join his other resting on Troy’s hips. He pulls away from Troy’s neck, looking up at the older man’s face. His eyes are closed, head thrown back, lips parted a fraction. After a second of heavy breathing, his blue eyes crack open, looking down the bridge of his nose at Nick.

“I want—” Nick licks his lips, finding it much harder to put words to these thoughts and feelings. “I want to fuck you.”

Troy snorts, wry and quiet. “Thought that was pretty obvious.”

Nick wants to roll his eyes but that might ruin the electrically-charged atmosphere they’ve created. It’s fragile, the air between them, too easy to destroy if they think too much about it. Still, Madison had made sure that he knew the importance of consent and protection. In this case, the former is the only one that matters.

“I need to know you want it to,” he states, trying to convey with his eyes the importance of this. Troy looks annoyed for a moment before a wry grin spreads across his lips.

“You asking me to beg for it?” And if Nick was expecting Troy not to be infuriating for once, he could chalk that up to the sleep-deprivation and bizarre day he has had. Troy may not be trying to kill him anymore but he’s still Troy.

“Like you haven’t begged me for other things,” Nick says, pointedly. The image of Troy beneath him, pleading and vulnerable, does nothing to quell the fire beneath his skin. If anything, it’s more fuel for the flame.

Troy smirks at that. “Ground’s not as soft here,” he whispers, leaning closer to Nick. He can feel Troy’s breath on his skin. “Best if it’s against the wall.”

And that’s good enough for Nick.

Discussion over, Nick captures Troy’s lips in a kiss, demanding and bruising. Troy returns it with the most enthusiasm he’s had all night, though there is still something sloppy about the way Troy kisses – uncoordinated, a bit spit-slick. Nick leans into his body, feeling the outline of Troy’s hard cock through his cargo pants. Nick’s fingers fumble for the button, undoing it and pushing them down along with Troy’s boxers. The older man shudders as his cock is exposed to the cool night air. Nick is quick with a remedy, hand closing around the length. Troy hisses at the touch, baring his throat and he tosses his head back.

Nick strokes Troy’s cock a few times before pulling away to spit in his hand and stroke it some more. Troy’s teeth are gritted, his nostrils flaring as he fights to steady his breathing. Nick presses his nose into the crook of Troy’s neck – he still smells the same, that confusing, repulsive mixture that Nick can’t seem to hate as much right now. It’s strange. Is that something he’ll be able to ask about once this is over?

“Jesus, Nick,” Troy moans, his hand reaching down to put a stop to Nick’s. “Stop daydreaming and get a move on.”

Troy is absolutely right. There’s no reason to be thinking about the aftermath when there’s still so much to do. “Then turn around,” Nick growls, and Troy complies.

Troy braces his forearms against the weathered wood of the barn as Nick struggles with the zipper of his own jeans. He gets it, pulling down the fabric just enough to free his cock. Just like he’s not the strongest or most intimidating alpha, he’s not the biggest either. Seven inches is still more than the average though. Even in their shared haze of pleasure, urgency, and desperation, Nick knows better than to go head-first, so to speak.

Nick leans against Troy’s back, his chin digging into the sinews of Troy’s shoulders as his hands grasp and grope at the fleshy globes of Troy’s ass. He takes a brief second to spit into his hand, slicking up his fingers – it’s not nearly enough but neither of them are going to stop here.

Pushing a finger against the puckered ring of muscle, Nick places a kiss on Troy’s shoulder, trying to silently convey that the older man needs to relax. He feels a tenseness seep out of Troy’s shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there at the same time his finger slides inside. He’s hot and tight and Nick does his best to be gentle as he moves his fingers.

“I’m not—” Troy starts, mumbled and breathy, “—‘m not gonna break.”

Nick listens to him, adding a second finger and scissoring them. He adds a third, searching for that small nub he know will make everything better. When he hears Troy’s breath hitch, he knows he’s hit it. Nick plays with it for a little while, feeling Troy stiffen and squirm beneath him, small gasps escaping him. Nick reaches around front, grasping Troy’s cock as he removes his fingers. He spits into his hand again, this time to wet his hard cock.

It’s not comfortable – not at first, at least. Troy is hot – too hot – and dry – too dry – and tight – too tight. Nick hisses as he slides in, fingers digging into Troy’s hip. The older man does his best to relax but he’s wound tauter than a wire. Nick’s forehead drops to rest between Troy’s shoulder blades, breaths coming out in heavy pants as he tries to hold still. Even if it isn’t the greatest, it’s still sex and that makes it one of the best things that’s happened to him since the world ended.

Troy removes one of his arms from against the wall, reaching down and squeezing his hand. It’s not a verbal confirmation but Nick understands what it means. _Move_.

So he does.

He pulls back and thrusts forward – repeats the action again and again, trying his best to find the angle from earlier that made Troy squirm. He does after a few fumbling attempts, feels Troy tremble beneath him, head dropping as he fights not to lose himself. Nick can’t see Troy’s face but he can imagine what it looks like. He can imagine the parted lips, the closed eyes, the flushed skin. He keeps that imagined image in the foreground of his sparse thoughts as he gives himself over to the pleasure.

They’re mostly quiet, save for a few rasping gasps and muffled groans. They’re not really afraid of being stumbled upon, too far gone to give it thought beyond the fact there’s no one in sight.

Nick’s not sure how long it is before he can feel the tell-tale sensation of his knot forming. It’s like a blood rush, a pressure at the base of his cock. It’s by no means painful. In fact, it feels great. But it also feels incomplete – like he needs something more. Like he needs to be inside. Troy seems to catch on because, while he tenses at first, he shifts after a second to spread his legs further, to give Nick more access.

“I’m going to—” Nick grunts “—knot you.”

“Do it then.”

Nick thrusts harder, gripping Troy’s hips so tight it’s sure to leave bruises. It takes effort to work the knot inside but once it is, Nick has to gasp for breath. The sensation of it is overwhelming. There’s a tight coil in his belly, tingly and just out of reach. Nick moves, chasing it, unable to do much more than grind into Troy as he reaches it. His climax washes over him like a tidal wave, white-hot and toe-curling. He all but collapses against Troy’s back as it wracks through his body.

Nick is blissed out, only half-aware of the world around him until he notices the muscles of Troy’s back moving. He cracks open his eyes, readjusting to the darkness as he looks to see what the other man is doing. Troy has reached between his legs, stripping his cock fast and hard. Nick lazily reaches around and finds his hand knocked aside.

“Don’t,” Troy sharply orders. “I can—” He gasps, too close. Nick looks up but all he can see is the back of Troy’s head, sweat-damp curls clinging to his skin. “I can take care of this.”

Nick listens, resting against Troy as the other man brings himself to completion. They can’t separate just yet but the cool night air is slowly bringing them back to their senses. To the realization of what they’ve just done. Troy is tight-lipped and closed-off, tenser than he has been all night – tenser than Nick’s seen him before. Nick isn’t sure what’s going through his head and he doesn’t ask. He’s got his own torments to face.

Nick pulls away the second it won’t hurt Troy. Regret or not, complicated feelings or not, Nick’s not a sadist. Troy probably is – possibly even a masochist as well – but that’s a discussion for another day. Or never. Never sounds about right. He strains to do his pants back up and wipe away the sweat on his brow, not even paying attention to what Troy is doing. He runs a hand through his tangled hair, trying to think about what he needs to do next when a thump from Troy’s direction startles him out of his thoughts.

Troy has pulled up his pants and turned around, leaning back against the barn wall. His hands are shoved in his pockets and there’s something dark about the look in his eyes. Like he’s sizing Nick up. Like they’re back to predator and prey. God, Nick just messed things up _big time_ , didn’t he?

“I—” He swallows, setting his jaw. “This didn’t happen.”

“I knew that already,” Troy replies, a nasty looking smirk on his lips, mirrored in his voice. “You’re not the only one who’d rather the entire ranch doesn’t know. Though, you are the one with girlfriend that doesn’t need to know.” Nick’s fingers twitch and Troy snorts. “See you in the morning, _friend_.”

Stretching, Troy kicks off from the barn wall, walking past Nick without a second glance. Nick watches his retreating back, unable to take his eyes off the other male until he’s disappeared into the darkness. Nick sighs, then, the last of his energy draining out of him.

Sleep sounds great right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are great and you can also drop me a line on my [tumblr](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers 3x05 and is light on Troy/Nick interaction but I wanted to give a proper conclusion to Nick and Luciana's story as this will likely be her last chapter. The beginning scene is from one of the season 3 deleted scenes which you can watch [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNPwXY9wJKE&feature=youtu.be). There are also to more scenes which feature Nick and Troy that you should watch if you haven't seen them: [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTqiSG91PKU) (first half is in the show, last half is the new stuff) and [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHiuA3GvSgI&feature=youtu.be).

Troy awakes at dawn which, honestly, is pretty good for him. Insomnia has gotten the better of him on more than one occasion so a couple hours of solid, dreamless sleep is fine in his book. He gets out of bed, showers, and checks on his father.

The old man is still sound asleep, an empty tumbler sitting on his bedside table. Troy’s nose twitches at the sight but it’s the extent of his reaction. It’s not like he isn’t used to Jeremiah’s habits, like he hasn’t grown up with them or hasn’t seen it worse. Does he like it? No. Does he want to laugh every time he hears how Jeremiah’s got it under control? Yeah. His dad’s a drunk – Troy is well aware of that.

When he leaves the big house, he sees Jake climbing the path way through the orchard. He nods in greeting to his brother but otherwise passes by unhindered. He wonders briefly what flits through Jakes’ mind. Is it too early to deal with his little brother? Troy could see it. Troy could also see his brother assuming that last night’s boar hunt had ended with Nick’s ‘death’ or ‘disappearance’ and that the former lawyer is psyching himself up on that assumption to deal with the resulting fallout.

Fortunately for Jake, Nick isn’t dead.

No, he’s very much alive.

Had Troy thought about it the night before? Was that his reason for luring Nick out into the night-dark desert, stalking him around the hills? Possibly, but that’s certainly not how it ended. In fact, Nick had gotten a much better deal out of it then intended.

He’s not surprised that that’s where his thoughts lead as he marches across the grounds. It was unavoidable, really. Last night was… Something. There’s a dark bruise just beneath his shirt collar to prove so.

Troy surprised himself last night, caught off guard by the desire and the fact that he went along with it. What had possessed him to do that? To get so close, to be so bold with Nick? There was the way Nick had been crouched over him with a gun to his head but, for as much as that image stares back at him, it’s a flimsy excuse. What he did the night before was _wrong_ and there were multiple reasons why. He’d list them, if he really cared. As it is, he’s just stunned by himself – and worried that someone might have heard or seen them. Troy wants nothing less than to explain to his father why he had sex with Nick Clark behind a hay-barn. He can imagine the shouting and the disappointment.

Realizing that his thoughts have strayed into dangerous territory, Troy pulls himself back; he refocuses on the task at hand, the one he decided on in the shower this morning. His footfalls are heavy as he makes his way towards the infirmary, his fingers wrapping around the cold, metal object in his pocket.

Floyd and Mack – the ginger-haired beta who serves as Floyd’s assistant – are on their way out when he arrives. He nods at Mack and holds his hand up, silently asking for Floyd to stop. The man does, lips curled with a scowl.

“Your eye bothering you?” the old man asks. Floyd’s a gruff guy with a voice that sounds like he gargles gravel. Troy has known him since he was kid, since he came here with an angry glint in his eyes. He’s a good friend of Jeremiah’s but Troy has never liked him – too serious, too god-fearing. He also knows that Troy is an omega and, well… He hates that anyone knows that, as few as there are.

“Nah,” Troy responds with a shake of his head, hand dropping to rest against his thigh. “I’m here about the girl.”

“Jake told me not to let you near her.” The revelation doesn’t surprise Troy in the slightest. Jake does that – he tries to keep the peace and prevent the worst from happening. Somehow, Troy is always at the center of it. He gets it, knows he’s far from perfect, but still finds himself somewhat exasperated. They’re brothers; can’t Jake trust him even a fraction?

No. The answer is no.

“Jake says a lot of things,” Troy says with a pointed look. Jake’s a lot more liberal than most of the people on this ranch but, having heard an argument or two, Troy knows it particularly applies to him and Floyd. Reminding the nurse of that, of their differences and disagreements, helps his case. “But it’s okay – I’m not here to hurt her. Came to let her out, actually, if I’ve got the go ahead from you.”

Floyd appraises him for a moment before sighing. “Fine with me. Tired of looking at her face.”

Troy grins at the approval, patting the man on the back before brushing past him. He knows the old nurse is glaring at his back – glaring, because that’s the way Floyd looks at anyone – but he doesn’t stop the younger man. When Troy looks over his shoulder a few seconds later, he sees that the two medics have set off to wherever they were originally headed.

Troy has a lot shorter of a walk to get to Luciana’s bedside. She’s sleeping, her bed the last in the row. He’s kind of surprised she can get any rest in here considering how light it is. Then again, not everyone is as light a sleeper as he is – it’d take an earthquake _and_ an explosion to wake his father.

Seating himself at the foot of her bed, Troy looks at Luciana – really looks, for the first time since he ‘met’ her. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t actually had a conversation with her. He’s seen her cowering into Nick’s side or unconscious on the ground. She was scared and hurting the first time and just hurting the second time, too out of it to feel anything else. Now she looks peaceful.

Objectively, he can see why Nick likes her; she’s got a pretty face with sharp, distinct features, though it doesn’t do anything for him. Women never have. She’s Mexican, clearly – probably full-blooded – but it doesn’t bother him much. In fact, nothing about her bothers him as much as he thought she would. Would he have a problem if she died? Not at all. As he looks at her, however, he feels more apathetic than  murderous.

Troy is pulled from his musings when she wakes. Her eyes slide open, bleary for a moment, before widening as she jerks back, gasping in surprise. He sees fear in her gaze as she jerks at the cuff around her wrist, a desire to get as far away from him as possible evident. He hadn’t expected her to be so virulently shocked but it’s not far off the mark of what he _was_ expecting. Troy sits there, still as stone as she struggles in her bed, waiting until she calms a little.

“Buenos días,” he greets. He has scant knowledge of Spanish due to the ranch’s proximity to the border and he also knows enough to know that he has the inflection all wrong. Troy doesn’t care though. It’s America and he knows Luciana can speak English.

She doesn’t respond, just staring at him in silent disbelief. It’s a tad annoying but it doesn’t ruin his plans. “Just wanted to check that you were okay,” he explains, reaching into his pocket and fetching the key he’d brought with him. He holds it up for her to see as he tells her, “I’m unlocking you.”

There’s still no response; he takes that as permission to do so, scooting closer so he can reach her wrist. “Your boyfriend earned you amnesty,” he tells her as he touches her wrist. This close, he can smell that she’s an alpha but he already knew that from in-take at the depot. He doesn’t explain how Nick earned that amnesty as he keeps talking. “And the medic says you’re out of the woods. No chance of you turning, so…” The lock clicks as the cuffs come undone. Luciana jerks her wrist towards her chest as he lets the cuffs clatter against the bed. “You’re free.”

He almost expects her to keep up with the silent treatment but she doesn’t. “Free to do what?” she asks instead.

“Whatever,” he replies, shifting so he’s resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re free to go, free to stay, free to live… Free to die, if you want.” And he’d help, though she’d have to wait for him to get his gun, and it would only be to add to his research. She stares it him in silent horror though, neither amused nor interested. Figures.

“There is one thing, though, that I think you should know.” He looks away from her, towards the entrance to the infirmary. The feeling of Nick’s hands on his skin come to mind but he pushes that aside. “I think it was me,” he admits, looking back at her, clarifying a second later. “Who shot you. I mean, it’s hard to say ‘cause, uh—” he shakes his head, the ringing of gunfire in his ears “—I don’t know, there was a lot of bullets. A lot of brown. But I’m pretty sure it was me.”

Luciana is shaking her head, face contorted with disgust. The reaction doesn’t surprise him but what she tells him does. He kind of figured her above that.

“ _Tú eres el diablo_.”

He’s grinning as he looks at her, meeting her disgust with clear amusement. “You still believe in heaven and hell and—What, you think all these dead, they’re my minions?” He can’t help the derisive scoff. “Oh, come on. It’s nature. This is all—”

He doesn’t get to finish that thought. She’s lunging towards him then, her fingers wrapping around his throat. It’s tight, pressing sharply against skin, but she’s still weak, injured, and much smaller than him. It’s uncomfortable but it doesn’t hurt and he’s not scared when she tells him, “I’ll kill you.”

Troy’s fingers wrap around her wrists, blue eyes meeting her dark, almost black ones. He can feel his face heating with blood as his hands squeeze hers. “That’s the difference between you and Nick,” he says, voice hoarse as she clamps down on his vocal chords. “When you say that, I believe you.”

And it’s true.

When Nick had him in the pass – had him on the ground with his gun pointed at Troy’s head – Troy didn’t think he’d do it. Too weak, too cowardly. It surprised him that Nick pulled the trigger at all, even if the only damage it did to the older male was a ringing in his ears.

But as Luciana glares him, gripping his neck as tight she can, all he can see is hatred and a passionate desire to see him dead. Luciana would kill him, given the chance. She won’t get that chance though and he’ll kill her if she tries. This is the last time he’ll let her go.

He drags her hands away from his throat; she is reluctant to let go, trying to hold onto the collar of his shirt as he pries her off. He wonders if she gets a glimpse of the hickey _her_ boyfriend sucked into his skin, if that’s why she stops struggling. She stares at him, all her fury, abhorrence, and loathing concentrated into that one look. He shoots her a grin as he gets off the bed and then, without a second glance, Troy turns his back on her and walks away.

 

 

Alicia has to drag Nick out of bed in the morning – literally.

He’s tired, he aches, and all he wants to do is burrow further into his covers, ignoring the world until well past noon. Alicia doesn’t let him though, throwing back the blankets and grabbing his arm, yanking on him like he’s a stubborn root. He gives in just so she doesn’t resort to worse. There might not be a Yale for Alicia to go to anymore but she’s still the smartest person he’s ever met. She’d find a way to make him regret it.

After he dresses and washes, he meets Alicia at the mess-tent. She’s sitting opposite of a chubby looking boy, grinning as she chats with him. He guesses she made friends at bible study. He’d hope so, given how late she stayed out – he’s pretty sure she came in around dawn. Grabbing a tray of food, he takes it over to the two and sits with them.

“Nick, this is Terrance,” she says, motioning to the boy. “Terrance, this is my brother Nick.”

“Nice to meet you,” the boy says, giving him an awkward smile. Nick nods, greeting him back. It’s too early for coherent conversation – or at least it is for Nick – so he lets Alicia and Terrance chatter on, focusing on his plate of food and the residents slowly trickling in for the meal.

He recognizes some of them – Floyd stops in for a quick bite but he’s off as quickly to return to the infirmary. He also spots the ginger-haired beta who initially treated Luciana at the gate; he seems to be Floyd’s assistant by the way the old nurse is constantly barking orders at him anytime Nick visits Luciana. He recognizes some of the militia men. He was introduced to a few of them the night before – Coop, Mike, Jimmie, Joseph, and Paul are the ones he remembers the names of.

Troy is one of the later arrivals. Blake, another one of the militia men, is at his side, mouth moving in a conversation Nick can’t hear. Troy’s expression is contemplative as they line up to be served. There are bags beneath his eyes. At least Nick isn’t the only one here who’s exhausted. Besides that though, there’s no sign of what occurred only hours earlier. Troy doesn’t even spare him a glance as he takes a seat at a different table, still listening to whatever it is Blake is going on about.

Nick has zero problems with that.

He tunes back into the conversation that Alicia and Terrance are having. When he realizes they’re talking about books, he looks down at his tray with a sigh and starts to push the food around. He’s debating just leaving, going to see if Luciana is awake, but that’s when he notices that his mom has appeared. She’ll probably want to know how the boar hunt went.

Before she can come over to their table, though, a voice rises above the crowd.

“Everybody, listen up, please.” It’s Jeremiah – Nick, along with the rest of those gathered, look up to the old man. Nick cocks his head to the side, curiosity in his eyes. “I just got update on Outpost Alpha.” The name is vaguely familiar to Nick, in the sense that he’s overheard it around the ranch. Other than that, he doesn’t know what’s going on. “McCarthy and his unit went out thirty-six hours ago and we ain’t heard nothing back. Could mean a hundred things, ninety-nine of them benign, but we always gotta prepare for the one-off.” There’s a solemn murmur from behind Nick. He casts a glance over his shoulder to see if he can spot the source but Jeremiah continues as Nick’s attention is diverted. “Troy here is gonna take a party out, but we’re gonna need volunteers.”

A few hands rise instantly. All militia, from what Nick can tell. He doesn’t raise his hand. He has no interest in venturing into the wasteland with Troy again. Anyways, Luciana should be released from the infirmary soon – he needs to be there for her. Blake, Mike, Coop, and Jimmy can keep Troy company.

And so, evidently, can his _mother_.

His head whips around so fast it’s a miracle there isn’t a crack when Jeremiah announces his mother’s name. He watches as she lowers her hand, a satisfied look on her face. She may be happy with herself but Nick is just confused. Why would she want to do that? Is this some sort of method of ‘fitting in?’ Hadn’t Troy already told her she’d earned her place? He meets Alicia’s gaze as people around them start to whisper. His sister is just as confused as he is.

Nick’s eyes never leave his mother as Jeremiah tells them to enjoy their meal. He watches as she starts off through the tables; she stalks past them, taking them empty seat beside Troy. Nick’s eyes widen – Alicia and Terrance are both looking at her as well. She doesn’t even look at them, too busy putting her napkin in her lap and then – _dear God_ – putting Troy’s in his.

What the hell?

 

 

Madison doesn’t even listen to him when he tries to ask he what’s going on, skirting around him the rest of the day. When his mother is as determined as she seems to be, he knows better than to try and get some answers.

Instead, he heads off to the infirmary where Luciana is. The cuffs are off and she’s gingerly eating her food when he arrives. As soon as she sees him, the meal is forgotten – she wants out of here. He has no problem with that, taking her back to the barracks. He realizes he hasn’t changed the sheets when she sits down on the bed; if she notices the scent, though, she doesn’t say. They talk in quiet tones for a while, Nick updating her on what’s happened.

There’s not much to tell her (or that he _can_ tell her) and there’s an elephant lurking in all of their conversation. Luciana wants to leave the ranch; Nick isn’t sure he wants to go with her. It’s too big to be ignored yet too fraught to broach. They settle on playing cards until Luciana tires and takes a nap. Nick sits on the porch chain-smoking until dinner. That night, he’s ready to get some well-deserved rest.

Ready but not fortunate enough. It’s still dark when they’re startled from their sleep. Shouts and screams worm their way into the room. _Fire_. There’s no way they can ignore it.

Nick leaps from his bed, fumbling to pull his pants up as Luciana asks in a sleepy voice “ _qué esta pasando_?”

“Gonna find out,” he replies.

Madison has woken up too; she’s reaching for her gun when she asks him where Alicia is. He wants to tell her that she’d know if she hadn’t avoided them all day but, instead, gives her a proper answer. _Bible study_. Nick’s pretty sure that his little, logic-minded sister isn’t actually studying the good book.

Nick doesn’t give them a chance for more questions. Pants on, he rushes for the door. He hears them both call out to him, telling them that they’re coming with him, but he doesn’t stop. If they want to come, they’re free to do so. Something is happening though and he can’t sit around and wait. He runs through the grass, headed in the same direction as everyone else – towards the distant, orange burn of a large fire.

People are lining up at the pump with buckets. Nick grabs one without a thought, filling up his bucket as Jake yells at them to get more water. There’s no hesitation as any of them run towards the burning house; it’s just a flurry of crackling flames and splashing water. Jake and Troy are yelling orders. Troy’s voice cracks as he yells at them to bring the rest of it but Nick notices with a sinking feeling the fire isn’t receding.

Jeremiah’s shouted “stop!” doesn’t even register to Nick at first. It’s the fact that Troy has stopped barking orders, stopped yelling at Paul and Mike. Jake throws one last bucketful into the fire as Jeremiah tells them “they’re gone.” Nick stands by the pump, eyes shifting between Jeremiah and his sons – between Jeremiah’s resignation, Jake’s confusion, and Troy’s frustration. But in the end, he has to agree – save the water, let it burn. There’s nothing else to do.

The crowd begins to disperse. He turns back to his mother and Luciana, leaning into the arm that Luciana places between his shoulder blades. He casts one last glance over his shoulder, noticing Troy standing alone in front of the raging fire.

 

 

Troy can still feel the heat of the flames on his skin.

It’s not the first time he’s felt that feeling. Campfires, brushfires, the ones he set when he was fifteen, bored, and curious. Arson was never quite to his taste, preferring the feel of blood beneath his fingernails, but he had tried it a time or two. Not in a long while though, before anyone – or any Clarks – get the wrong idea. He isn’t sure what happened at Martha and Russel’s house, just that it burned well into the morning hours. The fire wasn’t hot enough to completely burn away the structure nor cremate their remains; he watched just before heading over to the gate as their blackened bodies were pulled from the building.

Coop and the others are already loading the trucks. Troy mockingly jeers at Mikey as he struggles with a heavier case, offering no support – physical or moral – before going around and getting in the driver’s side of his truck, shooting Coop a nod of thanks first.

Coop and Mikey have had his back for years now; Mike has been his friend as long as he can remember and Cooper, though a few years old than them, has always treated him like a little brother. Coop is also his right-hand man, taking care of things that Troy hasn’t or doesn’t want to. Having this nearly ready by the time Troy is done with the Browns’ is an example of why.

Though he’s sitting in his truck, he has the window rolled down and can hear Madison’s conversation with Coop. His foot taps against the floor, listening curiously. Madison has spirit. So do her children, the two that come wandering out of the barracks shortly afterwards. Troy looks over, raising an eyebrow as they start to speak. Though they’re trying to be quiet, he can hear them. Alicia looks like she’s had a night and Nick looks like he wants to be anywhere but there. If he rolls his eyes when no one’s looking, well… No one has proof.

Troy raises an eyebrow when Nick says “I should go.” Madison shoots that down in a second, telling him to stay with Luciana, to which Troy has to agree. Though it might be fun to taunt the Clark boy, this is a mission and he needs to focus.

Seeing Coop wave out of the corner of his side mirror, Troy lays on the horn, drawing the attention of the gathered Clarks. He grins as three sets of eyes land on him. “Looks like you with me,” he calls, deciding not give away that he’s overheard. They seem to think they’re being subtle – it’s cute.

“I guess it does,” Madison replies, looking back at Coop’s Jeep behind him. Nick looks as well, though Alicia just glares at him. He hears her tell Madison that it doesn’t feel right and resists the urge to say something snarky in return. Alicia doesn’t like him – that’s fine; he couldn’t give less of a shit about her if he tried.

“You cannot trust him,” Nick says, and Troy’s bites his lower lip to resist chuckling. Nick doesn’t trust him? Fine by him. Guess that’s not a prerequisite for cheating on your girlfriend with someone. Funny that. Or is Nick worried that he’ll tell? As if. If they were trying to convince him that they don’t have an ego, they’re doing a bang-up job of it.

Troy honks again, tired of their conspiring. He wants to get a move on it, be back by night fall if they can. It’s like Madison says: he won’t hurt her. Well, not unless she gives him a reason to. There’s very few people he takes shit from if he doesn’t want to and, today, the Clarks aren’t among them.

He orders Madison in the front seat much to Blake’s chagrin. Then, as he takes the truck out of park, he waves at Nick and hits the gas.

 

 

“Okay, we have eggs, we have bacon, we have toast,” Nick all but sings, carrying the tray of food into the barracks. He notices Luciana’s solemn expression as she peers through the open door. He’s not sure what she’s thinking but he knows she’ll share if it’s important. “ _And_ we have butter, and that isn’t the fake stuff. Somebody actually churned this.

If there’s one thing Broke Jaw Ranch has going for it, it’s the food. Nick’s never been the biggest fan of American cooking – growing up in L.A, there had just been too many options for him to pay attention to the arguably most boring style. Here though, wherever everything is warm and fresh, it’s like heaven on his tongue.

Luciana gets up from her seat to wander over to him at the small little table. The barracks aren’t big – there’s a bathroom with running water and a table to dine at but it’s mostly just beds. It’s called the barracks for a reason.

She presses a small peck to his cheek as he sets out the silver ware, sitting across from him. “Thank you,” she says softly. Her voice is accented but he likes that – it’s lilting, in a way.

“You’re gonna thank me even more once you’ve tasted it,” he replies, grinning as he butters a piece of bread for himself. He watches as she picks up hers; her eyes light up as it touches her tongue and Nick’s grin grows. “Right? It’s good.”

“Wow,” she murmurs, clearly amazed.

There’s something domestic about this little scene that both warms and hurts his heart. This is nice. This is _good_. Yet, in this world, at this ranch, it can’t last. The knowledge that Luciana wants to leave weighs on him. The memory of what he did with Troy is like a ball and chain around his ankle. Nick sighs, rubbing his eyes as Luciana takes a bite of the scrambled eggs.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, her lips curling with a frown.

Nick grits his teeth, searching for the words to explain something she won’t understand and something he can’t tell her. The happiness is snatched away just like that and Nick wishes it wasn’t, wishes his mind hadn’t got the better of him. He bites into his toast and bacon in hopes of buying himself more time, shrugging his shoulders so she doesn’t repeat the question.

“I’m just thinking about the fire and the couple,” he responds. It’s not a lie per se – he has been thinking about since they returned to the barracks the night before, turning it over in his mind liked his turned in his sheets. It’s just not what had soured his mood. _That_ had been guilt and regret.

Luciana buys it though. She hums, nodding; “I heard people talking about it. It’s sad, but beautiful.” She takes another bite of her food, letting her words hang in the air. “They were together to the end.” Nick can feel the weight of her gaze on him but he can’t look up, eyes fixated on a corner of the room, chewing the food in his mouth. He hums in acknowledgement, at least.

“Nick,” she prods. “It’s time for us to go.”

He nearly chokes on his next bite of toast, panic surging through his veins. “You’re not ready yet,” is what he blurts out, the first thought that comes to mind. He gets up, unable to sit at that table, unable to meet her eyes. She stands when he does, a wonderful rebuttal for his words.

“You know I am,” she states firmly. “Don’t make me the reason to say.” There’s a hint of anger in her voice, that fire he knows she is so capable of. Luciana is strong – she’s a survivor for a reason. She’ll leave no room for argument even if Nick will try.

“Look, we can’t just walk to Tijuana without a plan.”

She rolls her eyes, gaze trained on him as he slips into the bathroom. He needs to wash out the toast stuck to the back of his throat. “I know people closer, in Mexicali.”

Swallowing a mouthful of water, he looks at himself in the mirror. “You _knew_ people, okay? They’re gonna be long gone by now.”

“There are tunnels where they would hide.” Luciana raises her voice, frustration clear. The brief blip of serenity from earlier is shattered glass on the scuffed wooden floors. He hates this. It’s not even lunch and there’s already been enough problems. Why does Luciana have to argue about this now? “Prohibition tunnels.”

Finally mustering the courage to look at his girlfriend, Nick stands in the doorway, resting his hands on the frame. “Luci…”

“You’re afraid,” she starts to state, cutting through whatever excuse he might’ve used next, “you don’t want to leave your family.”

Nick shakes his head, gaze dropping to the floor. “No,” he replies, though it’s weak and shaky. It’s not a complete lie but neither is it the full truth. “It’s just…” She looks at him, intensity in her brown-black eyes as she leans against the table.

“I can’t live here.”

There’s no room for persuasion or argument in her voice. She _can’t_ live here and, no matter what Nick says, he knows there’s no way he can convince her in that moment. Does that mean he won’t try? No. But, for the moment, he won’t push further.

“I’m not gonna make you.”

“You promise?” she asks him, and he nods.

“I promise.”

He wishes that was the end of it. His skin is crawling, his nerves aflame. He’d really like to get back to the peaceful breakfast he was teased, before this anxiety-inducing conversation had started. He feels too hot, too jittery, and too nervous. Unfortunately, Luciana isn’t quite done.

“You will come with me?” she asks, voice imploring. He rests his hands on the doorframe again, biting back the sigh that builds in his lungs.

“ _Si prometo_ ,” he responds, before disappearing back into the bathroom to get another drink. He can’t look her in the eye another moment when the weight of that lie – that false promise – settles on his shoulders.

Nick’s not sure, if and when she leaves, he’ll go with her. He hasn’t – he can’t – make the decision yet. But as Luciana doesn’t call after him again, he guesses it’s bought himself some time.

 

 

Troy scratches at his collarbone as he notices the wreck off the side of the road; he’s scratching at the fading bruise Nick left on him but through his clothing so anyone – so _Madison_ – can’t see. His hand drops to rest on the steering wheel as he sits up in his seat, leaning in to get a better look.

He comes to a coasting stop in the truck, tires protesting his rough treatment. He doesn’t care though, noticing the bottom of the bus and the orange-clad walkers shuffling around it. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the scene as he grabs up his radio, bringing it to his lips. “Cooper, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” he asks as he holds down the button, feeling a spark of glee in his gut. “We’ve got a party to attend.”

Troy is counting the walkers when Coop responds. “It’s out of our way, Troy,” is what the other man says, the straight man to his excitement. Troy is still looking at them though, still watching as the stumble and lurch. He’s unsurprised by Coop’s reaction but a bit disappointed. No fun in that. “We need to get to the huey and back. Over.”

“No, no, no – we leave them, they could migrate up the highway toward the ranch,” he replies, meeting Madison’s eyes. He wonders, for a second, what she’s thinking. Is this reaffirming her opinions of him or does this tell her something new? “We can’t risk that.”

Coop replies with another rejection and Troy’s about to open his mouth, argue again, when Madison nods slightly. “I’m with you,” she says. He can’t help the tiny grin that spreads across his face. Good. She sees his point – she understands the importance of eliminating every one of this lifeless bastards. Maybe she even understands the fun in it. Madison understands him better than most, after all.

He’s quieter this time when he replies, bring the radio closer to his lips. “We’re not making this someone else’s problem, Cooper.” Troy watches as Madison stretches her neck, leaning back further into the seat. Someone’s ready. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes. That’s it.”

Won’t even take them that, he thinks. Troy is itching for it. He’ll get out and take them all on himself if he has to but Coop seems to realize that Troy’s got his heart set on it and reluctantly agrees.

He’s quick to get out of the car, sliding around the back of his truck and removing the machete he prefers to use in close-combat. Blake, Mike, and Coop have all gotten out as well, gathering their chosen weapons. Madison is the last to leave the vehicle and he watches as she checks her gun. She doesn’t need that.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he quickly stutters, reaching into the bag and grabbing the pickaxe he knows was packed. Light but sharp, deadly in the right hands. The dull ache of his right eye tells him that Madison’s hands are the right ones. “No guns. It’s too much noise.” He pulls the pickaxe out, holding it up to gleam in the desert sun. “Not enough sport.”

She takes it from him when he hands it to her, flipping it over in her calloused fingers. “It’s a good weapon,” he says, but she doesn’t even look him.

He leads the group down the hill with far more enthusiasm than anyone else here has. So what? This is what he lives for – the violence, the blood, the adrenaline. Sure, he likes being on the winning side of this, especially when it’s against a bunch of bloated, rank corpses, but he doesn’t mind when the tables are turned on him, when there’s a gun to his head or fingers around his neck. The twist makes it interesting.

Troy is grinning, flipping the machete in his fingers like a baton – his eyes flit from one walker to the next. The orange jumpsuits are bright and a dead giveaway about what happened here. Prison transport vehicle crashed, all inside died. Which does he go with first though? The colorful garb draws his attention but he notices one among them is different – an officer.

Not like he’s ever had any love for authority.

He hits the corpse, his blade sinking into its rotting skull. He yanks hard, going for the next as that one drops to the ground. His blade cuts through the former inmate’s clothes and skin like butter, sliding out the other side of his chest with a spray of blood. Another one shuffles close as he rips his blade from the walker, straight into the path of his machete. He can hear rasps, grunts, and groans – it’s a cacophony of sounds, all music to his ears. They corpses coalesce on him and he takes them one by one, shoving his blade into the skulls from every angle. One gets it through the temple, another gets it through the chin. Warm, sticky blood splatters across his face. It smells like death and rot but he doesn’t care.

The blood is pounding in his ears as he slowly saunters towards the last of them. It limps closer, hands out-stretched as if reuniting with a long lost friend. His machete cuts through decaying skin and brittle bones, chopping off one arm and then the other before sinking into the walker’s gut, dragging it to its knees. Troy presses the tip of his blade to the base of its neck, holding it there as he stares down it. It gnashes it’s teeth as he raises his knife, sinking it through the skull. It stills and, when he slides the knife from its brain, it sits there unmoving. His boot collides with the walkers back, sending it flying forward, head smashing through the window of the bus.

The adrenaline is still singing in his veins as he looks over to the rest of the group. His blue eyes hunt for more prey, searching for any they missed, but there are none. He lets out a ragged breath, tilting his head back to look at the sky – endless and cloudless. His heart is thudding in his chest, his pulse beating in his ears.

“Oh, it’s a beautiful thing,” he says, unable to keep the thought to himself. “It’s a beautiful, _beautiful_ thing.” He turns to look at his men – and Madison – and finds them staring back at him. He raises his finger, pointing at where they’ve gathered. “Who timed that?” Troy asks, raising his voice to make sure they’ve heard him.

Blake is the one that responds. “It was just under a minute.”

Troy nods. Less than a minute? No wonder he feels like he needs more. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. “Eh, it’s good work,” he says. “Short work.” He looks at the bodies around him, at the gaping, oozing wounds in their heads and necks, and the severed arms of his last kill. He barely overhears what Coop says to Madison, hyper-focused on the gore at his feet, the blood on his boots. He looks up though, meeting Madison’s eyes.

And he wonders… What does she think of him now?

 

 

It’s only the middle of the day but Nick feels _tired_. The sky is grey as he walks the path up towards the burnt-out husk of Martha and Russel’s home. He hadn’t realized how small it was – only one room, if the outside is anything to guess. The roof is gone, the walls are black, and debris litter the ground around it.

Someone has gone through and scavenged from the wreck, likely when they were removing the bodies. He approaches a wheelbarrow of things – broken, charred boards of wood sticking out of the metal. He notices the dull gleam of light hitting glass and tilts his head, his fingers reaching out to brush the broken shards of picture frame. The picture it protected is faded and singed but he can still make out the subject. A young couple holds each other, smiling at the camera. This must’ve been Martha and Russel when they were young. They look happy.

It makes him wonder.

Is that happiness possible in this new world? Is it something that any of them in any scenario or relationship are capable of? Is something so genuine, so pure – is that something he can have with Luciana? He knows, without a doubt, that it wouldn’t be possible here but would it be out there in the wastelands? The uncertainty, the danger, the unpredictability – could that ever allow them to work? Maybe his mother is right; maybe settling here, overlooking all the faults and flaws in this ranch and its people, is worth it to be safe. To be _happy_.

Is a home worth the sacrifice?

Nick’s eyes refocus on the burned building. The structure is still there, blackened with soot, but solid enough from his knowledge of construction. It was a home once, to a couple that lived, laughed, and loved – who grew old together and who died together. It could be that again, if such a thing is possible in this new world.

Nick takes the picture and slips it into his pocket so it doesn’t get lost. This sign of history – of the past and happiness – doesn’t deserve to land in the trash heap. From there, he goes to the pantry; he grabs tools and a water bottle, remembering from his father’s lessons how to clean up a burned building. He has no other option but to start by cleaning the soot so, with a brush in hand, he gets on his knees and starts in on it.

The earlier clouds of have passed and now the sun is shining down on him, heating up his skin and the ground he’s kneeling on. He works though – throws himself into the task at hand, losing himself in the labor. He doesn’t notice Jeremiah’s approach until he starts speaking, brown eyes snapping to the old man.

“Once you’re done, I got a barn you can work on,” he says, a small grin on his lips. Nick’s heart gives a heavy thud in his chest but he returns it briefly before looking down at his feet. The comment is just a joke; it’s not a reference to what Nick did to his son behind a barn.

“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hands to rest on his knees as he looks back up at Jeremiah.

“What the hell are you sorry about?” the old man asks. He has a strong Southern drawl – something Nick has noted before but, now alone, actually takes the time to think about. It’s stronger than his mother’s which seems strange to Nick. Haven’t the Ottos been here for generations? At least, that’s what he’d heard around the ranch.

Shrugging his shoulders, Nick responds; “well, I wasn’t sure if this was my place, really.

“Community works together,” Jeremiah replies, motioning towards Nick. “And you’re a part of that now, ain’t ya?”

Is he though? It’s good to know that Jeremiah is accepting him and his family – being on the wrong side of the apparent leader seems the last thing they want. Well, maybe. Things might’ve worked out with Troy but, if they hadn’t, Nick’s got a hunch that the youngest son could cause hell. But right now, right here, he doesn’t want to think about Troy.

“Something satisfying about it, for sure,” he says by way of answer, waving the brush in his hand before moving to continue his work. He can hear Jeremiah’s footsteps behind him. He’s not sure what the old man is about to say but, when he does speak, it confuses Nick.

“This was my home.” Nick looks over his shoulder to see Jeremiah turning his gaze away from the sky. He’s looking around the burnt out shell of a building. Even without windows, a door, or a roof, this house seems small. It is, objectively, but he has a feeling that it’s not as noticeable when it looks like an actual house. “It was the only building on the property at first,” Jeremiah continues, snapping Nick from his musings. He gets to his feet as the old man continues. “Been here centuries – when this was Mexico, and Spain before that, and when it was the red man’s land before that.”

The term is _uncomfortable_ to say the least, though unsurprising. He’s not sure these people would call themselves conservatives – socially, they seem to be that way, but politically Nick has gotten the distinct impression that they’re of a more libertarian breed. Either way, they don’t seem like a truly tolerant bunch. Jeremiah pauses after the sentence finishes and Nick expects him to make some sort of justification for the slur but he doesn’t. There’s nothing about it when he speaks again.

“Jake was born right there,” is what he says instead, pointing to far left corner. There’s a small grin on his lips, like he’s remembering something fond. Which he probably he is; Nick would imagine the birth of your first child is something grand though the only times he’s thought about in the past have come with immense terror. Gloria and him had a scare or two, always a result of the drugs that messed with their minds and their bodies. He doesn’t think it’d be less terrifying is this world, without modern medicine or any certainty of safety, but neither of those scenarios are relevant to the memories Jeremiah is mentioning.

“Huh.” Refocusing his thoughts, Nick looks at the corner – he imagines a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall, imagines a featureless woman with a pinched expression and panting breaths, illuminated by the dim light of a few, lit oil-lamps. He imagines the room around her to be small but homey. “Yeah,” he continues, looking at Jeremiah, “you can see that it could be very beautiful.” Could be a home.

Jeremiah mutters in agreement, turning to look at the opposite wall. Nick wonders what that looked like at the same time the old man is likely remembering what it actually was. “A little too humble for wife number two,” the man says. _Troy’s_ _mom_ , Nick thinks. “Built the big house and let Martha and Russel live here.”

At the mention of the late couple’s names, Nick makes a small ‘oh’ sound and reaches for his back pocket, pulling out the picture he’d tucked away. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Jeremiah, “found that.” Jeremiah takes it with ginger fingers, looking down at it with the same nostalgia he’s looked at the rest of burned out house with.

“Thank you,” Jeremiah replies. He repeats himself just as Nick turns to head back to the spot he’d been working in. He isn’t even given a second to get back to it before Jeremiah speaks again. “Well, lookit here,” the old man murmurs with excitement and a hint of mischief. Nick looks over his shoulder again, watching at Jeremiah bends down, grunting and straining with the effort, to pull a blackened gun out of the rubble. “How the west was won.”

Yeah, Nick could believe. It looks _old_.

“This is a beautiful gun,” Jeremiah continues, carefully turning it over in his hands, eyeing it with even more fondness than before.

“Isn’t that a contradiction?” The question is out before Nick can even think about it. There were never any guns in the Clark household growing; his mother disdained them and his father went along with it, not caring either way. He’d grown a lot more familiar with them since the outbreak occurred and he’s not sure he’d call them beautiful. Not when the only thing they’re used for is death, even by the good guys.

Jeremiah gives him an incredulous look before turning his gaze back down at the gun. “The craftsmanship that went into this piece here—” Jeremiah points the gun at the ground, looking down the barrel like he’s staring at a target “—a goddamn work of art.” He still staring when he asks, in a harsher tone, “you think you can do better than that?”

“I don’t think guns are works of art,” he answers, straightening his shoulders. He doesn’t think the gun works – with all the soot and char, it _shouldn’t_ – but he’s admittedly not an expert when it comes to them. He’s being bold but he isn’t going to back down if Jeremiah takes offense at this.

“Economy of design,” the old man says, still not looking at Nick. “Tools are beautiful things.”

Nick’s brow furrows as Jeremiah pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, slowly starting to rub at the grime on the gun. “Is that what you taught Troy – guns are tools?” he asks.

Jeremiah all but cuts him off. “Troy is trying to understand himself.” The old man’s eyes are on Nick. He knows he’s pushing it but everything he knows and thinks about those ‘tools’ is telling him too. They’re _weapons_. They’re for _killing_. If you idolize gun, then you idolize its purpose. It would explain why Troy is so numb to the violence he inflicts.

Nick can feel his face contort with disbelief – he just can’t keep what he thinks of this off his face despite the fact Jeremiah is staring at him. He looks away for a brief second but he doesn’t keep his eyes off the old man long. Not when he’s holding that gun.

“You know who you are?” Jeremiah asks.

Nick looks down at the brush in his hands, somewhat confident that he’s not going to get shot since they’re still talking. “No. No idea, no.” His eyes land on the gun. “I know I’m not that.”

“Not what I asked, son.”

A long moment passes where the two of them just look at each other; there’s the smallest hint of a grin on Jeremiah’s open mouth and doubt is written into the crevices of Nick’s face. But, when it passes, Jeremiah looks down at the gun and seems to be back to his reminiscences.

“I gave this to Russel when he first moved in here,” the old man tells him. “Him and Martha hung it over the door.” He points the space just above where a door should be. “Every home needs a gun.” Nick can feel the pointedness of that statement and he can see it in the gaze Jeremiah casts his way. It’s brief though, not nearly as tense as before.

“Russel was there when I was at my worst,” he continues, “when most figured I was beyond repair. You know how that is.” And he does – Nick knows so well – but he’s not sure if it’s just a general statement or if Troy’s told him about the track marks they found during ‘intake.’ “When you and your soul have left the world everyone else knows.”

Nick’s tone is guarded as he quietly says “yeah, I know.”

And, as before, that tense moment passes like that. Jeremiah shifts into something more light-hearted. “If you’re gonna do this right, you’re gonna need my help,” he says before bending down and picking up a brush.

 

 

A few hours later, they’re both covered in soot – their hands and arms are black and there are more streaks on their necks and faces. Nick’s hair is sweat-damp and clinging to the back of his neck. They’re sitting on the front stoop of the burned house. Jeremiah is taking a sip from a flask of water as Nick looks around their surroundings; the old man hands it to him when he’s done and Nick is grateful for the cool liquid. After such hard work in the blistering desert sun, it’s well-earned.

He’s got the flask against his lips when Jeremiah remarks “you’re not bad at this.” Nick swallows, not exactly surprised by the comment. Why would a city boy like him know a thing about house renovations?

“My dad was a contractor,” he explains, screwing the cap back on the flask. “He did reno for our house. Kind of taught me as he went.” Nick hands the flask back to Jeremiah and rests his forearms over his knees. He sniffs, the ash in the air and the lingering scent of smoke overwhelming his senses for a second. “He used to say, ‘You gotta make a house your own if you’re gonna be happy in it.’ He never got a chance to finish it.”

Talking about his father is… Different. It used to be a lot harder but, like all things, time dulls the ache. Still, it’s not something he’s used to talking about with people outside his family. He’s always afraid of the questions they ask. Nick loved his father – Stephen Clark, that was, since his biological father had wanted nothing to do with him when he was born. He didn’t blame the man – he hadn’t signed up to be a father but, when it happened, Madison really wanted to be a mother. He left the moment Nick was born and Stephen, after a few years with Madison, officially adopted him.

“Well, you get to finish this,” Jeremiah replies after a moment of silence, unaware of the thoughts in Nick’s head. “Maybe there’s something in it for you.”

Nick stares at him for a minute, trying to decipher what that means. Like peace? With never getting to help his father finish the reno all those years ago? Or something else? He doesn’t get it but doesn’t care enough to ask for clarification. When he’s hears the indistinct chatter of two militia members strolling by, he looks to them – gaze drifting to Luciana standing nearby a second later. She’s staring at the distant hills, her back to them. He’s not sure when she wandered over this way but he noticed her when they decided to take this break.

He knows what she’s thinking as she looks towards the horizon. She’s thinking about leaving – about those friends in Mexicali who might have hid in prohibition tunnels. Or maybe she’s thinking of somewhere else; of Tijuana or Mexico City or anywhere that isn’t this ranch. Her mind is made up and he doesn’t blame her.

“She’s okay,” Jeremiah comments, drawing Nick from his observations. He sighs.

“She thinks the monsters here are worse than the ones out there.” And that’s his hang up. That’s why he can’t tell her he’ll go or tell her he’ll stay – because he’s not sure if she’s right. Yes, he doesn’t want to leave his mother or sister but if they were safe here and if Troy was still baying for his blood, he’d go. After the other night though… Yeah. Troy’s not out for blood. That, however, doesn’t mean he understands the youngest Otto any better.

“Then she should go.”

Nick agrees. Luciana wants to leave and she has every right to do so – to not stay with these people who killed hers, with these people who hate her for the color of her skin and the origin of her birth. Nick probably only gets a pass because they assume he’s white like his mother and sister. Or maybe it’s different, because he’s a man and she’s a woman, even if they’re both alphas.

Still, he looks at Jeremiah with a furrowed brow. A morbidly curious part of him wants to know if he’s saying that for the reasons Nick is or because of his racism. “But we’re on the same side now, right?” he asks. “I mean, no matter how bad the living might be, dead are worse, so us against them.” This is another thought he’s had. Though he mostly thinks that if Luciana doesn’t want to stay, she shouldn’t, this doubt lurks in the back of his mind. If she goes, he’ll never her see again – she’ll be claimed by the wastelands or the dead. Why isn’t that inarguably worse?

Jeremiah gives him the answer he expects. “That’d be nice if it were true.” It’s because of a mixture of pessimism and realism that he anticipates it. “When we’re in crisis, we regress to our own, the way it’s always been.”

The living can be worse than the dead but, in this case, Jeremiah’s not on the same page Nick is. “So Luci should go ‘cause she’s brown?”

“No,” the old man says, “she should go ‘cause she can’t get right with what happened.” With what _happened_. With what Jeremiah’s _son_ did to her _people_. That ‘no’ rings hollow. Though Nick isn’t surprised by what Jeremiah says about Luciana, his follow-up question catches the young man off guard. “Can you?”

Nick looks at his feet. Can he? Has he already – with his hands on Troy’s skin and his tongue in his mouth?

Lost in his thoughts, he only half-listens as Jeremiah starts speaking again. “Folks say you gotta hit rock bottom before you can quite your demons. When Troy—” _Troy?_ That gets Nick’s attention “—was five, maybe six, he—” Jeremiah pauses, like the words are hard to wrap his tongue around. “He used to have these crying jags. No rhyme, no reason. One day, he went on one of his fits and his mama grabbed him and locked him down in the basement. Next day, someone asks ‘where’s Troy?’ And I remembered where he was and I ran down to the basement to get him and there he is, just... Wasn’t angry. He was just standing there and— He kept saying “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m sorry.’ As awful as it made me felt, it didn’t make me quit drinking. ‘Cause at the end of the day, I couldn’t change ‘cause of Troy, or anybody else for that matter.”

At first, the story horrifies – and it must show on his face as he looks at Jeremiah but the old man doesn’t meet his eyes as he continues, stopping and starting and stumbling over the words. It’s a cruel tale and, if it’s any indication of what Troy’s childhood was like, it wasn’t just the guns that fucked him up. Though as Jeremiah continues, Nick slowly but surely catches onto the meaning – the advice Jeremiah is trying to impart.

That point is hammered in as Jeremiah pushes himself to his feet. “Your mama wants to stay and your lady wants to go,” he says, tone much lighter than before, almost lyrical which is odd in Jeremiah’s rough voice. “What do you want? _What do you want?_ ”

And that’s the million dollar question.

Yet Nick doesn’t answer it; he looks up from his feet, towards Jeremiah’s back, and asks; “so what did make you quit?”

The man turns around to meet his eyes. “I was shooting deer one day, drunk. Damn near blew my dick off.”

Nick laughs. Well, if there’s one takeaway from this conversation, it’s a reaffirmation that he has no interest in shooting guns – especially at deer while drunk.

 

 

Nick’s grip is gentle yet tight as he leads Luciana up towards the small house – her eyes are closed and she’s laughing, complaining about not liking surprises as he leads her. Still, he wants to show her this, wants to surprise her with it. He hadn’t thought that this house being his was what Jeremiah meant when he said he could get something out of this but the old man had told him that before called it quits for today. This place was his if he fixed up – his house, his home, and maybe Luciana’s too. But, for that, he needs to convince her to stay.

It’s long-shot and he knows it. Luciana has made he feelings perfectly clear: she isn’t staying. But with this place? With something to call his own? Nick is. And though it was unlikely and probably selfish, he wants to share it with her. He isn’t sure he loves her yet – they’ve been together less than a month if one looks closely at the dates – but he can see himself loving her. He can see himself having a future with her. Though for that, they have to be together.

“Okay,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as they approach the patio of the house. “Step, step,” he tells her, guiding her up onto it. He is happy. He wants her to like it – the house and the little dinner he’s prepared – but, most of all, he just wants to give her a good memory. Something she can hold onto whether she stays or goes.

“Oh please,” she whines though she follows along with Nick’s orders and guiding hands. “I hate being shocked.”

They pass through the doorway as he says; “it’s not a shock, it’s a surprise.” His eyes flick around the room (if one can call it that, with open holes for windows and no roof) as he checks to make sure everything is in place. The lamps are lit and the stars are twinkling above their heads. It’s beautiful and romantic. He really hopes it’s enough.

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

Nick watches her face as she does – watches as her eyelids slowly slide back, revealing deep, dark eyes that twinkle with the reflections of the burning lamps. Luciana is undeniably beautiful but she is so much more than that. He respects her immensely and he would respect whatever decision she chooses to make. If he can tip the scales in his favor, though… What’s the harm?

She is quiet as she takes in the sight before her – the dinner he’s set up on plates and a blanket, like a little picnic, and the lights burning in the darkness. There’s a nervous flutter in his stomach as the silence stretches on so he fills it. “See? A surprise can be good.”

His arms are still around her shoulders and his gaze remains on her face. She looks over at him, her eyes meeting his eyes. The lamps illuminate her face with sharp contrast – dark shadows and glowing highlights. Slowly, a smile spreads across her lips.

“I suppose,” she teases.

After that, he leads her over to the blanket. The settle in and he dishes her up a hearty serving – greens and meat and bread with that euphoria-inducing butter. She nibbles at her food as he makes his own plate, her eyes never leaving his. He knows there are a lot of thoughts going through her head right now but he doesn’t pry. He doesn’t want this moment to be ruined like their breakfast was; Nick wants to have this, at least. They make small talk as they eat, nothing of real note – perfectly domestic in a world where such a thing is scarce, where moments like this have to be stolen and treasured. When they’re done, they set the plates to the side and Luciana wraps herself in one of the blankets before curling into his side, leaning against the wall.

“Do you see that?” he asks, looking up at the sky above him. The stars are bright and numerous; this far in the country, without the light pollution of the old world, it seems like you can see them all.

“ _Hermosa_ ,” she murmurs, gently rubbing circles into his arm with her thumb. Beautiful. She’s right. He stares at the sky for a few seconds longer before he starts talking again.

“Russel and Martha, the couple who used to live here,” he starts as she rests her cheek on his shoulder, “they met when he was injured during the Korean war and she was a nurse at an army hospital in Tokyo. And she nursed him back to health. And the day he was discharged, he said, ‘I’m going to marry you.’ And she said I know. And they did.”

He is still looking at the stars when she asks, “how do you know?”

“Otto.”

He can feel her lift her head, feel the weight of her eyes on the side of his face. He drags his eyes away from the stars to look down at her, to meet her gaze. She looks confused. Nick doesn’t think she looks hurt but he could be wrong.

“With the right work, this place could be great,” he says, looking towards a lamp burning opposite of them. He sees out of the corner of his vision as her features shift and she looks away. He can see the conflict etched into her expression. “What?” he asks, lifting his head away from the wall. “What?”

She looks back at him and, with a small shake of her head, she says, “nothing.” And then she kisses him, slow and languid, her lips scalding hot against his. He returns it even though he knows it’s not nothing and knows this is just a distraction because he’s pretty sure he just lost her. For good.

When he wakes up in the morning, the bed is empty save for a note beside him, held down by a pepper shaker. He doesn’t need to read it to know that Luciana is gone. He does need to get out of bed to know the search party is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated and you can also drop me a line on my [tumblr](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it.


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